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MYSTERY AT THE RECTORY
THE CASE OF THE TWO PEARL NECKLACES
THE CASE OF THE MISSING DIARY
TRAGEDY AT BEECHCROFT
THE PAPER-CHASE MYSTERY
THE CAUTLEY MYSTERY
THE TALL HOUSE MYSTERY
THE WESTWOOD MYSTERY
DEATH OF JOHN TAIT
THE UPFOLD FARM MYSTERY
THE WEDDING CHEST MYSTERY


A. E. FIELDING


COPYRIGHT, 1937, BV
H. C. KINSEY & COMPANY,
PRINTED IN THE U. S. i


6 CONTENTS
CHAPTER XIII paob
An Old Crime Throws its Shadows on
the New One 137
chapter xiv
The Chief Inspector Runs Over the
Possible Links between Mrs. Whin-
Browning AND INSKIPP 147
chapter xv
Lemons Grow in Menton 160
chapter xvi
Mr. Parnall Goes to the Farm of the
Golden Goat 171
chapter xvii
A Photograph and Two Frames 187
chapter xviii
The Guests Learn that some of them
have Got into Print 201
chapter xix
Mireille 211
chapter xx
Mireille's Identity Becomes a Puzzle 222
chapter xxi
A Prisoner is Set Free 233
chapter xxii
At Clermont-Ferrand the End Comes
in Sight 245
chapter xxiii
Mrs. Norbury is Missing 256
chapter xxiv
A Scarecrow is the Main Incident in the
ROUNDING-UP OF A MURDERER 268


CHAPTER I
THE FARM OF THE GOLDEN GOAT
"Jack you're infernally lazy." Florence Rack-
straw, hands on narrow hips, looked at Inskipp with
an air of impatience. "Come along. The walk
back will do you good."
It was now nearly five o'clock.
"I don't need to be done good to," murmured
Inskipp, his felt hat tilted over his eyes. "I'm
perfect."
"Same here," said Elsie Cameron drowsily.
She was seated on the rocks beside him. "Don't
let us keep you, Florence."
Florence shot Inskipp an angry look. He caught
it and closed his eyes promptly. Her brother joined
the little group of three on the Menton promenade.
"Well, haven't we dallied long enough in Baby-
lon?" he asked, shifting a handful of stones to
another pocket.
"In Bosio, you mean," chaffed Elsie. HonorS
Bosio keeps the best cake shop in Menton, and the
Rackstraws loved a good feed.
"Shake a leg, Inskipp," adjured Rackstraw.
"I want to discuss an episode in Haroun with you."
Inskipp yawned. The two were writing a scenario.
They were to share the profits of the film between
them, and each talked as though they had a gold
mine under their hats.
"Haroun is tired," announced Inskipp firmly.
"Very tired. He won't be at home to visitors
7


10
SCARECROW
"Never when I dislike people. It sounds cynical,
but it's true. It's only when I like people that I
may be all wrong."
They were lounging on the Promenade du Midi,
that broad walk that runs along the sea at Menton,
sometimes with neither parapet nor railing to
protect it from the water. A grand walk when
the sea is rough, and the green waves come roar-
ing in over the foundations of the wall. White
wings were wheeling and circling over their heads.
One gull, more adventurous than his mates,
nipped the bread from Inskipp's fingers in his
swift glide past, banked—a lovely flash of silver
—and came back for more. The hot sun flooded
everything. The air was cool and fresh. The
sea ran in broad washes of deep blue and bright
green. The sky was the true sky of Menton, high,
and blue, and soft, and deep. The donkey and
ponies, kept at a corner of the casino for children
to ride, stamped a little. They were as bored as
Inskipp felt. A few notes from the orchestra
playing outside the casino reached them. It was
all like a scene at a theatre, Inskipp thought, some-
thing which he watched, but in which he had no
part. As for Elsie, she was at grips with a curious,
a quite contrary feeling to his. It was as though
something were trying to rouse her to a sense of
the moment's importance. She got up, ostensibly
the better to watch the gulls whirl overhead, in
reality to give herself room. What was this sudden
impulse which was sweeping through her as the
gulls swept through the air around her—an impulse
to fight and win the man beside her, a sudden
awareness of powers within her which, if used—
of qualities which, if shown—would draw John
Inskipp to her side and keep him there. He was a


SCARECROW
XI
lonely man. She knew herself to be his complement.
Should she make him realise this? She could. She
knew that she could. What she did not know was
that the fate of Inskipp depended on that moment—
that Atropos with her shears paused for a second
to wait for her. Had she obeyed her innermost
craving Inskipp would have been saved. But,
unfortunately, Elsie came of a race of women who
were won, not who did the winning. She told herself
the truth, that she cared for him much more than
he did for her. She flung off the odd feeling that
the moment held some opportunity which would
never come again—and turned to see a man hurrying
towards them along the promenade.
"Here's Du-Metri," she said in a welcoming voice.
"Two-Yards " was the nickname of the Norburys'
factotum. A tall wiry figure, he came swinging
along the Promenade from the nearby Halles.
"Ohe!" he hailed, and waved a long, lean arm.
Elsie liked the man. Two-Yards was a character.
She sat smiling as he strode up and made a jerky
little bow. "II padrone sends this message," he
said, drawing himself erect. "Not to wait for him
here, as he must go to Gorbio. He will have to
pick you up at the old Carnoles Olive Mill."
Two-Yards looked as though carved from pliable
teak, his features were so salient, his colouring so
uniform and dark a brown. His lean, clean-shaven
face was good looking, with regular features, and
dark eyes that were at once keen and veiled. He
knew every star that hung in the Menton heavens,
and he knew their courses, the hour of their rising
and the time of their setting. He knew all the
flowers of the fields, and the birds in the woods, as
he knew his own herds. Born in the hills behind
Hyeres, Two-Yards was steeped in Provencal


12
SCARECROW
legends and folk-lore. It was from him that Inskipp
had first heard the legend of Haroun, the Moslem
Corsair who had turned Christian for love of a
captive maid.
"Are you coming up to the Mill, too ?" Inskipp
asked.
Two-Yards threw up his chin in sign of negation.
He had still some purchases to make for the farm,
and would follow later in the day in the farm cart.
His eyes on the horizon, he stood a minute looking
out to sea.
Leaning far out of a boat painted green and
yellow, a fisherman was beating the waves with
all his strength, and at the full stretch of his long
arms.
"To drive the fish into the net," Two-Yards said
in reply to Elsie's inquiring look.
"Is there anything you don't know, Du-Metri?"
she asked him.
"Yes. I don't know who gives my Sab6 her silk
handkerchiefs," he said suddenly.
Sab6—short for Isabella—was his daughter. She
was a flirt, and Du-Metri was a Spartan parent.
"Well, I must be off." And he took his cap off
again, while Elsie laughed silently.
The two caught the next Gorbio bus and were
whirled along to the old mill at its opening.
Green and cool and very lovely, the road wound
past gardens where geraniums hung in thick mounds
the size of cartwheels on the stone walls, or climbed
half-way up the trunks of the palms, where roses
and carnations filled the air with fragrance, where
the bougainvillea covered walls and roofs with its
magnificent purple. They got out at the Old Mill
and sat down to wait for Norbury on the rocks
which dot the entrance to the little hamlet. The


SCARECROW
13
ruined Maulessena Castle was to one side, the great
new sanatorium was hidden by a group of olive
trees fifty feet high. Where they were sitting,
they had pines on one side and palms on the other.
It was typical of this corner of the world. The rustle
of the palm fronds sounded like heavy rain in the
breeze. Below them lay Menton looking what
architecturally, as well as historically, it was—pure
Italian, as it curved around the Gulf of Peace, a
horseshoe of emerald and cobalt. Eastward, two
lines of lavender and violet mountains carried the
eye to Bordighera, whose houses glittered like dice
on the farthermost spur of land. Up here, one
even caught a glimpse of the Gulf of Genoa on the
other side of the first line of purple hills, like a stroke
of sapphire. To the west, the green ridge of Cap
Martin ran an arm into the sea with one white
hotel catching the light.
Elsie drew a deep breath. Things must surely
come right between her and Inskipp in such a
world. And if that was not to be, then beauty such
as this can fill the heart like love. The sunshine
flooded all her being, luminous and strong and vital.
She crumbled some of the earth between her
fingers. "It's wonderful soil. You've heard, of
course, of the man who, by an oversight, left his
umbrella sticking in the ground hereabouts. When
he went to look for it a week later, he found it
a small tree in full bloom."
Inskipp laughed outright.
"Did Two-Yards tell you that one?"
"No. Mr. Norbury." Getting to her feet, she
looked about her, her felt hat in her hand.
"I don't think there's anything in the world
more beautiful, in its own way, than is this region."
Her eyes were shining, her whole little face alight


*4
SCARECROW
and glowing. It was a whimsical, irregular face
under a mop of tawny hair that had streaks of red,
like flames, in it.
"I suppose not." After a pause Inskipp added:
"But it doesn't mean anything to me. Does it
to you?"
"Mean?" She was puzzled, and her transparent,
candid face showed it.
He made a vague gesture. "It's lovely—as a set
scene at a theatre is lovely. But it's not real—to me.
Palms—they can't take the place of beeches. I'd
rather look at an oak than an olive, any day"
"And you'd rather watch rain than sunshine—
is that it?" she laughed. "Nothing like
patriotism!"
But he was not laughing.
Inskipp's sallow face was a melancholy one.
Something about it suggested the seeker who had
never yet even caught sight of anything worthy
of his search, the visionary who had never yet
had a vision. In age, he was under thirty.
His brow was narrow and low, not the brow of
a clever, or even of a well-read, man. His dark,
deep-set eyes were his best feature; they were
unsatisfied looking, but well cut and well opened.
His nose was thin, with generous nostrils, his mouth
also suggested generosity as well as firmness, his
chin was dogged and masterful. Elsie's quick eyes
had put it down correctly as the face of a dreamer;
but Inskipp did not look at all like a dreamer who
could not be wakened. You might fool him without
any great difficulty, possibly, but most assuredly
you would have to pay for it afterwards if he learnt
the truth. He was under medium height and
slenderly built, with a narrow chest which was the
reason for his being out of England. A bad attack


SCARECROW
15
of pneumonia had sent him to Menton, and a
chance stroll up among the hills had suddenly
brought him, some eight weeks ago, to a low
Provencal farmhouse. Twin cedars stood at the
gateway—one standing for Prosperity, one for
Peace. Its roof was of the red, fluted Provencal
tiles, its garden hedges were of rosemary and
juniper and lavender.
Inskipp had spelled out the farm's name on the
gate, and wondered at it: La Domaine de la Chevre
d'Or. Two-Yards had seen him, and promptly
asked him to hold the gate open for a pig which
was intent on double-crossing him. In the pig-hunt
which followed, Inskipp, Two-Yards, the pig, and a
tall, rangy man of middle age who swore heartily in
English, all got thoroughly well mixed up. When
the pig was back where he belonged, instead of
where he wanted to be, the Englishman introduced
himself as the owner of the farm, and asked Inskipp
in to taste some of his new wine. Inskipp met the
other guests who were staying at the place, and
had promptly arranged with Two-Yards to fetch
his things from below. He had not regretted it.
The farm was simple, but it was cheap, and the
scenery was magnificent.
Inskipp liked Mrs. Norbury, too. So did Elsie
Cameron, who had been at the farm since early
spring. She, also, had to spend the winter in
warm and sheltered nooks, and the farm was securely
tucked away alike from Bise or Mistral.
Norbury's yodel came ringing down the green
valley above them. Inskipp answered with one
of Two-Yards' strange shouts. Such a shout as the
Provencal herdsmen give at dawn and at nightfall.
A shout which has come down from the Phoenicians,
said Laroche. It stirs the hearer strangely. Some


i6
SCARECROW
old tumult of the blood beyond our present-day
reason or understanding answers it. Elsie never
listened to it without a feeling that the enemy
tribes were at the stockade, that javelins were
flying around her.
Norbury drew up his Ford close to them.
He was a big, sunburnt man in the early forties,
with a pleasant enough but very non-committal
face, out of which would come at times a glance,
chill and keen as a north-easter.
They clambered in over bags of flour, sugar and
salt. Then they were off.
"How's the marketing been ?" asked Inskipp as
they had to slow down for a herd of cows.
"So-so," was the reply. "They say the weather
is going to break. Hope it won't, or it'll be a bad
look-out for my oranges."
Norbury had not many oranges on his farm,
but he overlooked no source of profit, and an
orange-tree bears easily three thousand oranges
in twelve months, and choice ones yield four times
that.
It did not take long to reach his Domaine, or
farm, and for a moment the three of them looked
down at a sea of grey-green olives which hid the
lemons and vines planted below them.
Norbury's chief source of income was from his
lemon-trees. The Mentonais claim that Eve's last
act when leaving Paradise was to pick a lemon to
carry with her. She decided to give it to the most
beautiful country which she and Adam should find
on their wanderings. When she came to Menton,
she flung it on a terrace, telling it to grow and
multiply and turn the land into another Garden
of Eden, which—according to the legend—it
promptly proceeded to do.


SCARECROW
17
Norbury called for a couple of the farm hands
to help him unload the car, while Elsie and Inskipp
walked round a corner to the house. As they did
so, a good-looking young couple came sauntering up
to the open door. The woman in front, with some-
thing very graceful, though weary, in her gait. Edna
Blythe always walked like that, though she never
seemed to go farther than the nearest sunny corner.
She was a tall, slender woman, not pretty,
exactly, but with something about her rather sad,
very bored-looking face that suggested that she
could be pretty if she chose. She was fair, with
fine brown eyes, and a low forehead. Her features
were well cut. A straight nose, a small, curiously
tight mouth which yet looked as though when
relaxed it could be very sweet, an obstinate little
chin, and a firm jaw. Her hands were nervous and
suggested illness.
Her brother, who followed her in, was tall and
fair, too. Otherwise there was no resemblance
between them.
Mrs. Norbury joined them with one of her ginger
cakes which she wanted to put out of doors to dry
off. She rated Norbury sharply for letting the car
cut across the grass. Inskipp sometimes fancied
that her big burly husband was a little afraid of his
dot of a wife, and indeed Mrs. Norbury could be
very forthright and unbending at times. There had
been that affair of the Italian count and the lady he
called his wife just after Inskipp's own arrival. Mrs.
Norbury had learnt from the young man himself
that he and his companion were not yet married,
though they intended to have this done soon.
The car took the two down to Menton the same day,
Mrs. Norbury driving, and looking calm and un-
flustered, in spite of the fact that the count and


l8 SCARECROW
future countess on the back seat seemed to have
turned into two geysers.
"If you tolerate a thing, you aid it," was her
only comment on the matter, in answer to a
chaffing remark of Rackstraw's, who thought her
attitude distinctly comic.
She asked Inskipp and Elsie about Menton as she
carefully set the cake level.
"It was very close," said Inskipp, "and very
enervating."
"As always "threw in Elsie.
"And as always," he went on, " full of Voronoff's
patients, or would-be patients."
"We women score when it comes to old age,"
said Mrs. Norbury meditatively. "We accept it
more placidly."
"Not while there's a paint-pot to be had!"
retorted Elsie, laughing.
"A woman has to accept so much," Mrs. Norbury
maintained, "that old age seems a trifle." She
spoke bitterly. Her voice was bitter, too. But,
then, Mrs. Norbury did not have a pleasant voice
at any time. Over the telephone, that tester of
tone, it sounded very hard always, and could
sound distinctly grating.


CHAPTER II
INSKIPP HEARS OF MIREILLE, AND LEARNS WHAT
THE GOLDEN GOAT STANDS FOR
For Inskipp, the next fortnight was one of outward
peace and inward battle. He won. At the end of
the time Florence Rackstraw treated him as a
very unpleasant insect, and Inskipp was glad. He
had found it harder than he thought to get out
of the atmosphere of the suitor in which Florence
had very subtly wrapped him and all his words.
He had had to be really rude at the last to cut the
cord which, she insisted, linked them. Elsie had
watched his struggles with approval, but with no
overt help. She told herself that, as he had got
himself into the false position, he must get out of
it by himself, too. But when he was out, he was
no nearer to Elsie.
One night, when the other men were off
helping to drive some young bulls to Castellar,
whence they were going to be sent to Aries and
Nimes for the bull fights, he and Mrs. Rackstraw
had sat talking on the verandah. Oddly enough,
Mrs. Rackstraw had been Inskipp's secret ally in
the struggle with her daughter. Inskipp had
thought more than once that she had no love for
either of her children. Had he known the story of
her life with their father, and how much these two
resembled that unpleasant gentleman, now dead
and buried, he would not have been astonished.
As it was, after Inskipp, beguiled by the singing
of the nightjar in a nearby tree, and by Mrs.
19


20
SCARECROW
Rackstraw's words on companionship had drifted
into what was practically a description of his ideal
woman, Mrs. Rackstraw had said significantly:
"I know a girl who fits that description of yours,
Mr. Inskipp. All but the loveliness, which you think
means a beautiful soul—and that's Elsie Cameron."
Florence Rackstraw, who had slipped unnoticed
into a chair in the corner, sat very still.
Inskipp was amused. How little people under-
stood, he thought. Here had he been indiscreet
enough to give a glimpse of his heart's ideal, and
what he showed had been identified with Elsie
Cameron! Elsie was a nice girl, a very nice girl.
He would be a lucky chap who would win her
one day for his wife; but as to her resem-
bling the dream creature he had described
Inskipp gave a suppressed smile, then he made for
his own room. He wanted to jot down his im-
pressions of the herd of bulls this evening as they
had gone roaring, stamping, snorting down the
valley. Just such an incident could have happened
at the castle of Anna's father—Anna was the
Christian maid who had converted Haroun to
Christianity, said the tale. Inskipp had never up
till now written anything, but he was bored at the
farm, and boredom is the best incentive to writing.
He had worked for about an hour, when a knock
came at his door.
In answer to his curt "Entrez," Florence Rack-
straw came in.
"I've got something that would fit wonderfully
into your film," said Florence. "It's in a book on
Provence castles—an old French book that I picked
up in Menton last time we were there. I've been
reading it."
A week ago Inskipp would have made an excuse


SCARECROW
21
but she had altered—she had retired defeated, and he
followed her without another thought to the large
room which the Rackstraws used as a sitting-room.
"Light your pipe, and I'll get it," said Florence
as she stepped on to her own bedroom. "Matches
are on the mantel "she called back. Her tone
was friendly, though detached.
Inskipp strolled to the fireplace, where some logs
of olive wood were still smouldering.
He suddenly picked up a photograph standing
by the clock. He had never seen it there before.
He had never seen it anywhere before. This lovely
oval. This beautiful small head set so proudly on
its slender shoulders.
He still had it in his hand when Florence came
back.
"Isn't she beautiful? She's my greatest pal!
And she wants to go into a convent when she has
secured her divorce!"
"It's the loveliest face I have ever seen," he
said slowly.
"And as good as she is beautiful," Florence said
warmly. "I want her to come here. It would do
Mireille good to have to interest herself in the
affairs of this life for a while. She is too unworldly."
"Mireille?" Inskipp repeated questioningly.
What a charming name, he thought.
"Yes. Mireille de Pra is her name. Madame de
Pra. She was married some three years ago, but
she never lived with her husband. He had a fit
as they were walking down the aisle after the
wedding; he rolled right off the steps, they say—
I wasn't there—and for a while they thought he
was dead. But unfortunately he wasn't. For when
he came round finally he was raving mad, and has
remained mad ever since. Isn't it terrible!"


22
SCARECROW
"It's a crime—marriage such as that!"
Inskipp was fairly stuttering.
"I have another photograph of her. Would you
like to see it?"
Florence felt in a drawer and handed him a
portrait as lovely as the other, if not more so, for
it showed a figure as beautiful as was the face.
It showed the same girl—she looked barely nineteen
—in what seemed to be a convent garden bending
over a great spread of Madonna hlies. Inskipp's
heart contracted, and expanded, and did all sorts
of queer things inside him.
He said nothing, only looked at the two photo-
graphs.
She has to stay in the convent in Brittany
for the present," Florence went on. "But, then,
frankly I'm not keen on Harry meeting her. He
isn't her sort at all, and it might spoil our friend-
ship. I usually keep these photographs safely
tucked away for that reason. He doesn't know
about her, and—well, I don't see why he should.
He may have left here before she comes."
She put the photographs carefully into a drawer.
Then she showed him the book with the descriptions
of the old castle that had interested her. Inskipp
barely understood what she was saying, but he
thanked her effusively, and, taking the book, went
out of the room, his head in a whirl. He felt like
a man who has most unexpectedly stumbled on a
treasure. A sense of excitement filled him, an
impatience for the weeks to pass till that wonderful
creature should stand before him in the flesh as
she stood in the photograph. He felt as though the
world were a marvellous place, as though to each
of us had been offered a ticket in a wonderful
lottery. The feeling stayed with him next morning


SCARECROW
23
when he woke up. But as he dressed, and when he
sat down to his writing, doubts began to rise. He
told himself not to be a fool. Girls such as that
one in the photographs would not give him a
second glance. Or even one. He laughed aloud
in scorn at his ugly, dull self.
"Glad you're in such a cheerful mood, Inskipp,"
said a voice behind him. "The fact is, I was
wondering whether you would help me out again—
just for the next few days. I don't like to keep
the Norburys waiting."
Rackstraw had come in through a side door.
Inskipp took out his pocket-book. A bit over
two hundred francs should settle Rackstraw's debt
to the Norburys. Inskipp was anything but a
wealthy man, but he had set aside a thousand
pounds for odds and ends when he had invested
the remainder of his money. So far, he had spent
very little of it. Money could not buy happiness—
could not prevent acute loneliness, for bought
companionship is no companionship. Inskipp had
tried that out thoroughly already.
"I'd ask the Norburys to let it run on for a bit,"
Rackstraw said, "but they're having a hard time
to make ends meet, let alone lap."
Inskipp said that this was news to him.
Rackstraw made a little face.
"It wouldn't be if you slept in my room. Mrs.
Norbury wants the money back that she put into
the farm, and Norbury can't run to it."
Inskipp handed over the notes now, but he had
an uncomfortable feeling that Rackstraw was
meditating a further request for a loan. Something
biggish. He fancied that Rackstraw had been trying
to get up his courage for it for some days.
He slipped away out of doors. The orange trees


24
SCARECROW
were too compact and tidy for his taste. Inskipp
preferred lemon trees. By the back door was a
charming specimen. A sudden desire to paint it
came over him. He could sketch in an amateurish
way in water-colours, and he went indoors now for
his sketching-block, and box of colours. He chose
his pencil carefully, and set to work.
Not for him was the one-line of the real artist, but
by patient work he achieved a very accurate drawing
of the little tree. Its beauty grew on him as he
studied it. Its airy grace, the delicate spacing of its
fine leaves which decorate but never hide branch
or fruit. Its shape as it grows older is much like
that of a pear tree, but the abundant, daffodil
yellow fruit hangs so clear of branch or leaf, that it
seems to be backed only by the bright blue of the
sky, and against that sky the effect is enchanting.
Inskipp enjoyed the work. Unlike the writer, the
artist, however poor, finds that if he is patient he
enters into a life within life, a world within the
world. Colours become more than something seen
by the eye—they have a meaning—they have a
magic
Inskipp decided to put in the kitchen door, the
maize field with its tassels and the scarecrow that
stood in one corner, and a tiny lemon sapling
which grew at the base of the second lemon tree,
with its little fruit the size of an acorn, but per-
fect in colour and shape, dotted like fairy lamps
all over the slender branches.
"Tiens! You sketch? Well, perhaps?" It was
Monsieur Laroche, sipping a glass of Chateauneuf du
Pape. As for the local stuff, Laroche maintained that
it was not wine at all, but merely vinegar in the
making.
Monsieur Laroche repeated his remark. His


SCARECROW
25
mother had been Irish, and he spoke English as
though born in Dublin.
"Why should I not sketch?" Inskipp asked,
putting his drawing away.
Laroche had a way of making him feel as though
he were under a microscope, than which there is no
sensation more distasteful to a Briton.
"I agree that it is in character." Ah, there he
was again! Laroche could talk by the hour on
what was in a man's character and what was not.
Miss Blythe came towards them.
"Has the noon-gun gone yet?" she asked.
They all set their watches by the cannon fired
from Menton fort.
Inskipp thought she had a pretty but rather
vacant face. She was very dull to talk to, very
heavy in conversation, and she had a habit, which
embarrassed him, of listening with her eyes rivetted
intently on the speaker, as though she would never
see him again, and the memory of each feature
and of each expression might make all the difference
to her own future.
The gun boomed. Miss Blythe set her watch,
and passed on.
"What's her character?" he asked Laroche
under his breath as the Frenchman stared medita-
tively after her.
"Ah !" said Laroche between his teeth. "That
is the thing she hides with all her skill. But I
have my ideas!"
Inskipp was amused. Poor quiet, dull Miss
Blythe!
I can't think what you see of interest in her,"
he said truthfully.
"I see a most uncommon sight," said Laroche
almost sadly. "I see a person afraid of themselves.


26
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Yes, just that. Not, as I thought, merely afraid
to show herself to others, but afraid of some weak-
ness—or some impulse—in herself. I suspect
drink," he said finally.
"Mind you," said the writer apologetically, " that
is only a guess. Chiefly because of the choice of
this farm. No temptations here. Mr. Norbury
keeps no cellar. His eau de vie is only useful as an
embrocation." The farm had its own still, a perfectly
respectable farmhouse appurtenance in France,
where every windfall finds its way ultimately into
it. "I wish I could clear her up," he added; "but
it might take years."
"How about asking her brother?" suggested
Inskipp.
The Frenchman considered a moment, then he
shook his head. "I think not. He is born a bully
under his varnish of the public school. And, by the
way, how he avoids saying what school he was at."
A sound of voices made them look up. Rackstraw
and Du-Metri were walking together towards them.
Mrs. Norbury was behind them.
"Another painter! Here's Du-M6tri with a pot."
Laroche stepped aside to avoid its swing.
"For the Golden Goat," said Two-Yards, with a
gleam of his strong teeth, making for the gate,
where he began to repaint the name. As he did so, he
started one of his songs of which the refrain was:
Apres aco, su anac. (After which I left.)
Laroche listened to it with delight. He wondered
what Mrs. Norbury would say if she could under-
stand the words of the Rabelaisian old ditty.
Mrs. Norbury, as it happened, was thinking of the
painting that was being done, not of the song.
"I do so dislike the farm's name." She looked
at the gate frowningly. "I wanted to change it to


SCARECROW
27
Lou Lavandou, or Las Mimosas. Provencal names,
too, both of them, but you can't change things in
Provence. Not even though the last owner was
gored to death in a field over there by one of
his bulls."
"But the name wouldn't alter the luck, surely."
Inskipp's voice was amused.
"It's supposed to be unlucky," said Mrs. Norbury
shortly, turning back into the house; "but my
husband doesn't believe in luck."
"I thought La Chevre d'Or is a beneficent creature
who guards the hidden treasures left by the
Saracens," said Elsie, who, together with Rackstraw,
had come out after Mrs. Norbury.
"And I thought he was the defender of Provenqal
relics, butting away the archaeologist who got too
close to anything interesting," said Rackstraw.
"One of its duties, certainly," allowed Laroche.
"That Chevre d'Or is evidently in the pay of the
Department of Public Works. But he has another
side. A more mysterious side. He is also The
Unattainable. The Impossible-to-realise. And to
see that Chevre d'Or is to die shortly afterwards."
"They would get that side of him from the
Greeks, who settled all this part of the coast and
built their temples and theatres here," said Rack-
straw, who was an archaeologist.
"Yes, in many places he is Pan. But he is
other things, too. A blending of many old super-
stitions." Laroche made a gesture as the luncheon
bell sounded. "Unless you are a Provencal—and
even then—it is better to leave the mysterious
creature alone."


CHAPTER III
INSKIPP WRITES TO MIREILLE, AND AN ACCIDENT
HAPPENS TO FLORENCE
By the end of the month Inskipp was corresponding
with the beauty of the photograph. It came about
through Florence having come down one morning
with her hand and arm in a sling. A bad attack of
neuritis, she called it. She sought him out later in
his room, and explained that she was sending some
flowers to her friend Mireille de Pra, and now could
not write the letter for her birthday that should go
with them. She did not care to ask her mother to
do it for her, for, as Inskipp knew, she did not want
Harry to get to know Mireille, and she could not
ask her mother to keep the letter a secret.
"He would fall in love with her. She would
loathe him. And our friendship would never be the
same again," she said for the second time. "Would
you write a letter to my dictation?" she asked,
and Inskipp, trying not to flush with pleasure, said
he would be happy to do so.
"It must go by the afternoon's post," she told
him, and suggested three o'clock for the work, but
at two she looked in to his room to say that she
had a raging toothache, and was going to drive
down to Menton to have the tooth out. Would
he write instead, and explain that she—Florence—
had a bad attack of neuritis? Mireille knew that
she was subject to them.
Inskipp had spent a whole afternoon over the


SCARECROW
29
letter until it was a monument of the stilted and
the stiff.
He received a charming reply, but all too short.
As a reply to this reply, Inskipp ventured to
send a basket of mimosa, accompanied by a little
very carefully written note entirely about Florence
and the farm.
He received another charming letter, and a very
delightful correspondence started, though on
Madame de Pra's part the letters were all too brief,
and not very frequent. Yet, even so, they brought an
unaccustomed look of happiness to Inskipp's face.
In the first ones, Madame de Pra had written as
to an elderly man—an invalid—and Inskipp had
hardly dared speak of his real age, but he had
done so. The interval that followed this had been
longer than the first one, and the next letter from
Mrs. de Pra was very short and stiff, but that
coolness was now wearing off, and when they met
it would be without awkward explanations. As to
when that meeting would be, Mireille said that when
she had finally obtained her divorce she wanted a
long change up on the hills that she knew so well.
Florence had told Inskipp that Mireille was born
in the Esterels, the daughter of a small proprietor
named Briancard, a scholarly man, who had paid
too much attention to his books and too little to
his land. His wife, an Englishwoman, had died a
year after the marriage of Mireille, their only child,
and Madame de Pra was now an orphan.
Florence made no secret of her hope that Mireille
could eventually come to the farm, and Inskipp
made no secret of his sharing that hope. He won-
dered how he could ever have disliked Florence as
he had just before his break with her. Evidently
he had taken her far too seriously. Evidently it


30
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had just been a whim of hers—passing—quickly
forgotten—to try to make a fool of him.
Even at the time of his break with her he had
thought that it was love of domination rather than
affection. He was sure of it now. Yet there was
another side to Florence, and this morning it was
very charmingly in evidence. She had used some
phrase that had startled him, for it was word for
word what Mireille had written him in his last
letter. Seeing his start, Florence had at once
explained that she had heard the sentence from
Mireille herself apropos of the bond between a
writer and his pen. And from that she had gone on
to talk of Mireille in a way that enchanted him.
He diffidently told her what her friend's letters
meant to him, what character, what heart they
revealed. Florence listened with a very soft look
on her face—a look that touched him.
"I believe you would have fallen in love with
her from her letters, even if you had never seen
her picture," she said finally, turning away to
choose her gloves.
"No," Inskipp said honestly, for the vision of
that lovely face was ever with him. And on that
he now ventured to ask her if he might have one
of the photographs of Madame de Pra which she
had. Florence refused absolutely and curtly.
Inskipp told himself that he had roused her jealousy
as a friend. But Florence explained that she would
feel it to be treachery to Mireille to hand on her
picture to any one else. "But if you ask her, she
might send you one. Perhaps a later one still,"
Florence said, turning at the door. And Inskipp
realised afresh how ugly she was.
He thought of what Elsie had said. Theoretically
he, too, held that faces are records of thoughts and


SCARECROW
31
emotions, but poor Florence's face was surely just
a freak of nature.
"Upon my word, Inskipp," said Laroche, as he
and Rackstraw came on him a moment later. "I
think you have had a glimpse of golden hoofs and
horns, eh? You look as though you had. If so,
beware!"
Inskipp flushed.
"I think he has seen Mireille," suggested Rack-
straw with a grin. "I don't mean the film of that
name; I meant the damsel herself."
"Then you have met her?" Inskipp said
instantly.
The two men roared their amusement in great
peals. As for Elsie, she had gone on into the house.
"Touchi!" Laroche ejaculated, laughing afresh.
"Ah, Miriio! If a lady is the reason, then in-
deed !" And he threw up his hands.
"What are you two talking about?" Inskipp
was vexed. "You mention a lady's name whom I
don't think you know?" He looked at Rackstraw
questioningly. "And you and Laroche seem to
think I've made a special-sized joke."
Rackstraw hastened to apologise. "Sorry, my
dear chap, sorry! I don't know the lady. I merely
mentioned the name of Mistral's famous heroine as
a chance explanation for your look of general
content these days. I've evidently hit some mark."
"Mistral? That's the damned wind that gives
every one the pip, surely?"
"It's also the name of the great Provencal poet
—Frederic Mistral. Or was," Laroche explained.
"His Miriio is a Provencal epic. Though personally
I prefer Calandau. But Mirew is Provencal for
Mireille, the name of his heroine, a name used long
before his day for any pretty girl."


32
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"I only meant that you must have met some
village charmer—no offence, Inskipp." Rackshaw
was feeling very amiable this morning.
Inskipp was already appeased. He Was glad to
be assured that Harry Rackstraw had never met his
sister's lovely friend, and he hummed to himself
as he too went indoors.
These were the days of the grape harvest. The
weather was ideal. The sunshine poured down on
the vineyards, the countryside rang with the singing
and laughing of the grape gatherers; yet Norbury
looked very glum, and said openly that but for his
guests he would not have been able to carry on.
Only Mrs. Norbury, apparently unruffled as ever,
cheery as ever, saw to the housekeeping with
undiminished efficiency.
"If Mrs. Norbury feels so cheerful, I needn't be
in a hurry to pay last month's accounts," Rackstraw
said to his sister.
"Mother left you the money to settle for her,"
said Florence with a sudden frown. "Where's the
receipt? I'm writing to her. I'll enclose it."
Mrs. Rackstraw had decided to go to a married
daughter in Rhodesia who had had a bad accident
and was stranded with no one but a couple of
children to help her. It was not money but physical
help that was needed. The mother had left over a
week ago. Florence had refused to accompany her.
She had a tiny income of her own, and the expenses
here at the farm were low enough to let her live
on it without working. She was by profession a
librarian, and had worked as such in South Africa,
where she was born.
"I'm writing to her, too. I'll send it." Her
brother spoke shortly.
"I don't believe you've paid up yet Mother


SCARECROW
33
ought to have given the money to me," Florence
said in her most superior tone.
"You'd have forgotten to settle, in your new
campaign against Inskipp," he retorted.
"My new campaign ?" she asked loftily, arrang-
ing her hair.
My dear girl, I've known you for over thirty
years, remember! Those letters to that old witch
in Rennes, Mademoiselle—what was her name—the
housekeeper who used to be at that awful boarding-
house in Paris when we were there. Don't you
suppose I know you're up to something? And
something which will pay Inskipp out?"
There was a short silence, while Florence chose a
walking stick. She was off for a long scramble.
"Whatever you're at, has slowed up his output,"
Rackstraw said, lighting a cigarette.
She smiled a slow, very unpleasant smile. By
Jove, Flo was plain, Rackstraw thought as he caught
it. How on earth she ever expected to marry
"He'll be writing better than ever soon," she
promised in a curiously amused voice.
"I didn't say anything about its quality—
quantity, too, counts. As a matter of fact, in the
last scene of his he got the love-talk far better
than in bis opening one."
"Well, there you are!" said Florence, laughing
a little under her breath.
"What can you have done that makes him look
as though he had been left a million?" persisted
her brother. "And who is this friend of his called
Mireille?"
"How should I know? Mireille? . . . Sounds a
fancy name," she said innocently.
He gave her a suspicious look, but she began to
sing in her hard, nasal voice, and led the way


34
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through the garden. She and Blythe were walking
over to Castillon. Rackstraw was off for Menton,
there to be rowed out to the Baoussd Roussi, the
famous Red Cliffs just over the Italian border
where fifty thousand years ago paleolithic man
lived—in bodily shape very much like his descend-
ants, where the women wore shell bracelet jewellery
very much such as can be bought at the local fairs.
The other two might join him later on, and all
three come home together, or they might not get
so far. Rackstraw never waited for any one.
Since Inskipp's resolute withdrawal, Florence had
turned her attention to Blythe, with what success
it was hard to say. Certainly Edna Blythe seemed
pleased. Edna was an indolent person who spent
long hours extended in a deck chair in the garden.
Whenever visitors came in for a drink, and they
were fairly frequent these fine days, and she was
out in the garden, she would envelope herself in a
Times until the visitors had been shown to their
rooms. Once, Inskipp happened to pick up her
paper after it had been serving her for some time
as a screen, and was amused to find its centre
neatly pierced by a large pinhole. So that wrapped-
up aspect concealed quite a good observation hole;
but he dropped the paper again without giving
the matter a second thought.
Blythe could be heard now calling: "Miss
Rackstraw! Miss Rackstraw!"
His sister looked up and chaffed them as they
set out, lunch in their shoulder-bags, stout sticks
in their hands. Florence laughed back at her, and
waved her hand to Inskipp up in his window.
He promptly sat down and started a letter to
Madame de Pra far away in Rennes. A very humble
letter, asking her if she could let him have a photo-


SCARECROW
35
graph of herself. He did not say that he had seen
those in Florence's possession, but he did say how
much he would like to have a picture of the writer
of the enchanting notes which were his greatest joy
in life. It took him quite half an hour to write, and
he posted it in the nearest letter-box to the farm.
It was while walking back that he caught sight
of some one—a man—waving and shouting and
running. Inskipp waited. A minute later he saw
that the man was Blythe. He hurried to meet him.
"It's Miss Rackstraw!" called Blythe, as soon
as he got within talking range. "We must get
something to carry her on"
"What's happened?"
Then as Blythe, who looked very pale, did not
reply, Inskipp went on: "Has she hurt herself?"
"She's dead." Blythe spoke in a tone as though
overwhelmed by the calamity. He looked ghastly.
"I'll tell you all about it in a moment. ... As
soon as I've seen Edna. . . . When I get my breath.
. . . Back at the farm. ..." He seemed uncertain
where to tell it.
The two, without another word, hurried to the
house. There they met Norbury mending the front
gate. Blythe grasped his arm.
"Get a stretcher of some sort. Miss Rackstraw
slipped off a rock, and is lying dead in a valley
near here. Where's Edna?"
"Hold on a moment," said Norbury. "One at a
time. Miss Rackstraw slipped? Where? How?
But you need a whisky and soda."
Blythe did. Drinking it, he pulled himself
together. They were walking in single file, he said,
Miss Rackstraw leading, along a narrow ledge of
rock, when suddenly a huge roar sounded behind
them—a roar like nothing on earth, said Blythe.


36
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Startled, Miss Rackstraw missed her footing. She
plunged over the ledge before Blythe or the man
who was leading a baboon by a strap, and who had
sat down to rest by the roadside, could put a hand
out to grasp her. Blythe had clambered down after
her and found her quite dead with a broken neck,
as well as broken back.
"Good God!" muttered Norbury. "What a
shocking accident! What became of the man and
the beast?"
"I told him to wait by the body. The baboon was
on its way to the Chateau Grimaldi, of course."
"I suppose you stopped at the Commissariat de
Police to tell them about it? It was on your way
here," Norbury said, hurrying back with them to
the outbuildings.
Blythe had not. He seemed to have no idea
where the Castellar police station was.
Norbury shook his head again, and said that
they must go there at once. The police would
attend to bringing up the body and getting into
touch with the man who had the ape. "I suppose
you can describe him?"
Blythe said that he was afraid not, beyond that
he was middle aged, very dirty, dressed in innumer-
able garments all more or less ragged, and that the
baboon was a big one.
Norbury pursed his lips over this, and again said
that the only thing to do was to start at once for
the police.
"I want a word with my sister first." Blythe
made for the stairs.
"My dear fellow," said Norbury in his most
peremptory manner, " you mustn't wait a moment!
You must let the police know at once!"
"I must tell Edna!" said Blythe in a dogged


CHAPTER IV
MISS BLYTHE TAKES THE NEWS ODDLY
As Inskipp locked the portraits into his suitcase
until such time as he could get frames worthy of
them, he saw Edna Blythe coming through the
gate, looking her usual indifferent self.
Inskipp hailed her and asked if he might have a
word with her. She seemed startled, but she was
easily startled, as he had noticed.
"It's about Miss Rackstraw," he called when
she was inside, and Edna's face lost its look
of interest.
"There's been an accident," Inskipp said. "Blythe
wanted to find you, but Norbury thought the police
should be told at once. Miss Rackstraw . . ."
He told her what Blythe had told him. Blythe
had spoken of the friendship between the two
young women, a friendship of which Inskipp had
seen no trace, but to his surprise Edna Blythe
now turned an ashen face to his.
"My brother was with her?" she said in a
curious, toneless voice and sank into a chair.
"You're quite sure he didn't make a mistake?
I mean, I suppose she really was dead—not just
stunned?"
"He said that there was no question but that she
was killed outright, that neck and spine were both
broken by her fall. There are some nasty places in
the gorges around here," Inskipp added. Then he
stopped, for Edna's face looked as though she were
on the point of fainting. He started towards her,
38


SCARECROW
39
but she waved him back and ran up the stairs
to her own rooms. The Blythes had a wing to
themselves. Inskipp took a few turns outside on
the cement path. He could not understand Edna
Blythe's way of taking the accident to Florence
Rackstraw. It looked, it really looked, as though
she suspected that Florence had met her death in
some other way than as Blythe reported it to have
happened. It seemed a preposterous notion, but
turning it over now in his mind, he recollected an
occasion, a week or so back, when he had come on
the two of them in a chestnut wood evidently
disagreeing about something. Richard Blythe had
moved away just as Inskipp saw the two, and for
a second, as she looked after him before she caught
sight of Inskipp, the latter had fancied that he
had seen the look of a trapped animal on Edna
Blythe's face. He had told himself at the time that
the shadows of the shifting branches were responsible
for the fancy. He was not so sure now. It was a
horrid thought. Inskipp was far more than good
natured, he had a really kind heart, and that odd
impression of the woods, added to the way in
which Edna Blythe had just taken the death of
Florence while out with her brother, disturbed him.
Her brother. . . . Elsie Cameron had never liked
Blythe. . . .
She and Mrs. Norbury were both still out.
Edna Blythe and he were alone in the farm for the
moment. He went to the foot of the stairs leading
to her balcony, but when she ran down to him, it
was from the stairs leading to his and the Rack-
straws' rooms that she came, her suitcase in her hand.
"I went into Florence's room just for a moment,"
she said, answering his look. Her face flushed.
"Florence asked me to see to something for her in


40
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Nice. And it must be done at once." She spoke
hurriedly, her words tumbling over each other. As
a rule Edna had a drawl. She actually bit her
lip for a second as she faced him.
"I wonder "she began. "Mr. Inskipp, I
wonder "—her face was scarlet by now—" I wonder
if you could let me have as much as—say—five
hundred francs. I have hardly any French money."
As it happened, Inskipp had brought from
Mention the last time that he was there the equiv-
alent of fifty pounds in francs.
"It's just for the moment—my brother, of course,
will repay it at once. I shan't get to Nice till too
late for the banks," she murmured.
Inskipp assured her that he would get her the
money. She thanked him tremulously.
"And please telephone for me to the Castellar
Inn. I'm so upset I can't seem to remember my
French. I want a car to take me down—at once!
Her teeth were actually chattering.
Inskipp telephoned immediately. He was told
that Miss Blythe could have the Ford, but that
there was no one to drive her.
"I'll drive myself. I don't mind. I'll be there
at once. Tell him to be sure that there's plenty
of petrol."
Inskipp could not offer to take her, for, not much
of a driver at any time, he could not drive a Ford
at all.
He handed her the notes and received a very
grateful stammered word of thanks. Then unex-
pectedly she sat down at a table and began to
write a short note. To her brother, she said. Mean-
while he picked up her suitcase and carried it out
to the farm gates. She followed in a moment. She
struck him as hardly conscious of where she was


SCARECROW
41
going, so long as she was making for Nice—or was
that but a pretext to get away from the farm? He
thought the latter, as the two now hurried on to
the inn together. Some terror seemed to be urging
her.
When the Ford was ready she jumped into the
driving-seat, told the inn-keeper that she would not
forget about the rule of the road in France, hurriedly
shook hands with Inskipp, and said that she had
written a line to her brother about the five hundred
francs, which would he please hand him. She pro-
duced an envelope with Richard Blythe scribbled in
pencil on it. "I'll leave it in his room," Inskipp
promised.
She had her finger on the starter, but she took it
away. "Not on any account!" she said earnestly,
and again with that look of fear in her eyes: "/
could have done that! Please hand it to him
yourself."
She waited for his "Certainly, since you prefer
it !" before she set the car in motion.
With her eyes fixed on the road ahead of her,
Miss Blythe was out of sight in a few minutes.
She left Inskipp thoroughly uneasy. Back at the
farm, he met Mrs. Norbury and Elsie, who heard
the news with shocked horror. They, at any rate,
did not look or act as though the fact that Richard
Blythe had been alone with the dead girl had
any terrible significance. On the contrary, Mrs.
Norbury spoke of how great a shock it must have
been for him.
As for Mrs. Rackstraw, she dreaded to think,
she said, what a blow Florence's death would-be
to her. And unfortunately the brother, being at the
Red Caves, might not, she supposed, be home till
late that night. "I suppose Mr. Blythe told his


42
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sister before my husband hurried him off?"
she asked.
Inskipp said that Miss Blythe knew of the tragedy,
and had at once gone to Nice on some errand of
Florence Rackstraw's. He said nothing of the extra-
ordinary emotion which she had shown.
Three hours passed before Norbury and Blythe
returned. As Mrs. Norbury thought, the dead body
of Florence had been taken to the village mortuary.
She and Elsie went at once to the place to find it
being transformed into a sort of chapel by the
kindly people, who have that respect for death
characteristic of their race, who see in it a promotion,
rather than a mark of bondage.
"Luckily we belong to what is known as Friends
of the Police," Norbury said with a grin. "It was
my wife's doing that we joined, when we first took
the farm. It's a small enough subscription when
one finds what red tape it saves one from. I told you
you ought to take your passport with you, Blythe!"
"But that would have meant a delay to find it,"
Blythe pointed out. "You went with me—that
was enough."
"It wouldn't have been if we hadn't been
Amicales," Norbury told him. "You've no idea
how many forms have to be filled in in a matter
of this kind."
"Were the police troublesome ?" Inskipp asked.
"At first they were inclined to be a bit stuffy,"
Norbury replied. "But when they heard about the
baboon, they knew that Professor Voronoff had a
'Permis' to have another taken to his Chateau,
and Blythe's account of it tallied. Very luckily,
too, the man and it were rounded up at Mortola
within half an hour. Fortunately the day is dry
and the road showed the ape's prints as well as the


SCARECROW
43
marks of poor Miss Rackstraw's shoes where they
slipped over the edge, so that there was no mistaking
what had happened. But now, about Rackstraw
at the Red Caves, how on earth are we to reach
him? The police have learnt that he has already
left the place, so there's nothing for it but to tell
him when he gets here.
The Norburys were called away, and Inskipp
promptly seized the opportunity to hand Blythe
the letter from his sister.
Blythe read the few lines with a frown on his
face. He was still frowning as he thanked the other
for lending his sister the money. He did not look
pleased, Inskipp saw, and the fact added to those
doubts roused by Edna's manner.
The telephone rang. It was from Nice. From
Miss Blythe, who was asking for her brother.
After a few minutes' listening to what she had
to say at her end of the wire, Blythe told her that
there would be no autopsy—that the police con-
sidered the tragedy to be quite simple and straight-
forward. He went on to say that he had her letter,
and would settle with Inskipp whom he had just
thanked for his most opportune help. That done,
he hung up, and went to change and have a bath,
for the ravine had left its marks on him.
Norbury came in then. His wife had to hurry
away on some household matter, but he poured out
a glass of whisky and soda for himself. "Talking
is thirsty work—especially talking to the police.
Then, too, Blythe "He paused to make sure
that the door was shut before adding: "His
nerves were in tatters. He took that poor girl's
death uncommonly hard."
Quite unconsciously Norbury's tone suggested
his surprise at such a display of emotion on Blythe's


44
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part. "I was afraid at one time that the police
might think he was taking it too hard, and once the
French Johnnies get that idea in their heads they
can be very tiresome. Fortunately for Blythe, the
place bore out his story in every detail. Personally
I hardly know Miss Rackstraw. You and she were
rather by way of being friends, weren't you?"
"Yes, she had some sterling virtues," said
Inskipp warmly. He did not add that having
Mireille de Pra as a friend was the chief among them.
Norbury and he now went up to Rackstraw's
room, and tried to find the mother's address. But
apparently Rackstraw had no note of it, and finally
Inskipp went on to his own room.
He was rather surprised when, sometime later,
Blythe slipped in and closed the door carefully
behind himself. First of all, Blythe returned to him
the five hundred francs lent to Edna, and then he
added, with a very poor attempt at casualness—
"By the way, Inskipp, do you mind my asking you
not to do it again? I mean, lend my sister money.
I'm no end grateful as things happened, but even so,
I ask you not to do it a second time."
Inskipp stared.
"The fact is," said Blythe awkwardly, "the
fact is, that Edna is rather addicted to gambling.
That's between ourselves strictly, of course. She's
doing her best not to play again, but that's why
she never goes down to Menton with the rest of you,
and for her sake I cut it out too. So—well—should
she ever ask you to let her have any money again,
just have a word with me first, will you?"
He waited till Inskipp, very startled, said that
Blythe could rely on him not to lend money again
to Miss Blythe, then he hurried off as the telephone
bell began to ring down below.


SCARECROW
45
So Edna Blythe was a gambler—or had been one
of those unfortunate people. But nothing told him
by Blythe just now would explain the real fear in
her face and voice when she learnt that her brother
had been alone with the girl who had met her death
—Inskipp went over in his mind every detail of his
talk with Edna when she asked him for the loan
of the money—though it did explain her and her
brother's prolonged stay at the farm, and their
refusal ever to go down into Menton.
Going to the big sitting-room used by all the
guests as a lounge, he learnt that Edna Blythe had
telephoned to say that she had already started
back for the farm. So she was not spending the
evening at any casino. Curious . . . Blythe must
have been very urgent on the matter. Or had her
own good sense triumphed?
His thoughts turned to Mireille. She must be
told, of course, but it would be a dreadful shock to
her. By this time, he and she wrote to each other
as implicit lovers. He had finally made no secret of
his hope that, once her divorce was secured, they
could stand affianced before their world; and
Mireille had written him a most touching little
note that never left him, confessing that she asked
nothing better of life than that this should happen,
that his letters had completely won her heart.
Miss Blythe got back late that night, and seemed
delighted to be once more at the Chevre d'Or. In
reply to Mrs. Norbury's questions as to what
commission of Florence Rackstraw's had taken her
so hurriedly to Nice, she only shook her head, and
said that she was pledged to secrecy.
The next day, Rackstraw was still absent, very
much to Norbury's vexation, for a note had come
from the police requesting some one from the farm


46
SCARECROW
to go down to the British Consulate at Nice, and
there explain just what had happened. The police
had sent in their report, but, if the Consul thought
fit, he might want an independent investigation
made.
Norbury could not possibly leave, and Blythe
had, he said, developed a throat overnight which
prevented his using his voice.
Inskipp volunteered to go down and see the Consul
at Nice, for he wanted to buy the most gorgeous
frames that he could find there for the two portraits
of Mireille. Mrs. Norbury thought that since her
husband could not go, she ought to. So finally it
ended in Mrs. Norbury, Elsie, and Inskipp going
down together, while Edna Blythe insisted on her
brother going to bed and letting her stir him up a
linseed poultice.
Mrs. Norbury had begged her husband at break-
fast to look again for Mrs. Rackstraw's address.
But it was not until the car was almost at the gate
that Norbury came down, waving a letter in his
hand.
"Here's a note I found on Miss Rackstraw's
mantel. In it is her mother's address in Bulawayo,
or just outside it."
A cable was immediately telephoned. A long
cable breaking the dreadful news.
At the British Consulate in Nice, they found that
the French report had been so detailed that, after a
few signed statements, the matter was at an end, as
far as inquiries went. But the Consul wanted Flor-
ence Rackstraw's passport to be returned for can-
cellation.
"I think she had it with her," Mrs. Norbury
explained. "We can't find it anywhere among
her things, I feel sure it must have slipped out of


SCARECROW
47
her bag when she fell, and is lost somewhere
among the undergrowth, but I'll look again for it
when I get back to the farm."
On their return, Blythe's tonsilitis attack seemed
to be very much better, so much so that he would
be up and about on the next day, his sister thought.
"Funny, the way it's taken him !" said Norbury
to his wife when they were alone. "I believe that
throat of his was merely to get out of going with
you."
Mrs. Norbury looked incredulous for a moment,
then she said thoughtfully, "That seems rather
far-fetched. I mean, that Miss Blythe would lend
herself to any acting. But the Blythes are rather
funny—don't you think so, Frank?"
He had picked up a pile of French notes from the
dressing-table. "These are from the Blythes?
Wonder why he never pays with a cheque? Is
that what you mean by funny?"
"I was thinking of the fact that neither of them
ever get any letters." His wife spoke under her
breath.
"They go down to Menton for them, so he says,
and get them from Cook's, or from Barclay's bank."
"There are never any envelopes thrown away
in their paper basket by either of them. Even Sabe
has spoken of it."
"They are our salvation this bad year," was
Norbury's only answer.
"All her underwear and all her clothes were
bought at Menton," went on Mrs. Norbury. "The
last place where one would buy an outfit, if one
could help oneself, with Nice so close to us." She
stopped, for Norbury's face showed clearly that he
did not want to hear any gossip about the Blyths,
the most profitable guests at the farm.


CHAPTER V
INSKIPP DECIDES TO RETURN TO ENGLAND
Rackstraw arrived early next morning. He had
been up in the hills, and so had missed the messages
to him that the police had sent out.
In a couple of days it was, Inskipp thought, as
though the sea had closed over the ugly, lanky
figure of Florence Rackstraw, or as though she had
never been, so little difference did her death seem to
make in the life at the farm. He had to wait some
time for a letter from Mireille; she wrote in great
grief at the loss of her friend and then went on to
tell him that she had been hurt in a car accident
and that her arm had had to be set in plaster, though
her fingers were free. She had no portrait to send
him, she wrote, but would have one taken as soon as
her arm was free again, and would send him a copy.
The note was brief, as holding a pen under such
circumstances was very difficult. She wrote that
she hoped he could read her altered writing. But
her next letter was typewritten. Mireille said that
she had bought a typewriter, as the doctor told her
that a compound fracture of the upper arm—
which, it seemed, was what she had had—was often
long in healing. Mireille wrote that she had told
them to take all the time that was necessary, rather
than let her arm be shortened, or stiffened. They
had assured her that that could not happen, if she
was patient. And again she spoke of what a loss
the death of Florence was to her.
Inskipp was beside himself at the thought of her
48


SCARECROW
49
suffering, though she wrote that she was being
wonderfully nursed by the nuns. As for her coming
to the farm, she agreed that she could still come, but
not for some time as the slightest jar might injure
her arm beyond repair.
Inskipp forced himself to be content with her
letters, and they were enchanting. Gay—sweet—
and humorous by turns. But he found it hard to
wait. He thought of coming to Brittany himself,
but when he suggested this to Mireille, she wrote very
definitely against it. Gossip would at once learn of
his presence and of their friendship—and their
hopes. And the knowledge would be used by the
de Pra family to put yet another obstacle in the
path of the divorce, which they were contesting so
obstinately.
Autumn turned to winter, Christmas came and
went, a gay festival, with circular loaves carried like
wreaths hanging on the arm to be blessed at mid-
night mass on Christmas Eve, with saucers of
growing wheat set at the corners of the tables,
which had been set to soak on the festival of St.
Barbara and which were now hand-high little
tufts of green tied about with scarlet ribbon.
Rackstraw and Inskipp were deep in their work
which was practically finished. Rackstraw was
going home shortly to find a producer, but as
yet he had made no move. The Blythes spoke
of leaving about the same time, but they too
lingered. As for the Norburys, they seemed
to have turned the corner at last, and showed
cheerful faces as they went about the place. So
had Inskipp up to these last days, but now, every
twenty-four hours marked an added gloom. Rack-
straw happened to come on him pacing his room
one afternoon.
r


50
SCARECROW
"I wondei if you could let me have "he began.
Inskipp made a gesture of negation which for
him, was quite violent.
"I shall be able to pay back every farthing when
I get home, apart from my share of the film," began
Rackstraw huffily, but again Inskipp did not let
him finish.
"I'm afraid I must ask you to do it before you
leave. I'm sorry, but are you aware, Rackstraw,
that you've borrowed close on fifty pounds from
first to last?"
"Have I really? Well; as soon as I get home
you shall have it back—and interest too, if you like."
"I'm in a hole myself," said Inskipp, "or I
shouldn't have to hound you for the money. I
invested pretty nearly everything I own in Waverly
Shipping bonds. They've become unsaleable, since
Lord Waverly committed suicide last week."
"Did you put everything into one basket? My
dear chap, how foolish! You should never do that,
you know. Spread your risks. That's the point
in"
"The point is, that I want that money returned
to me before you leave here," said Inskipp firmly.
"I'm sorry, but I must have it."
"Well, I'll see what I can do," promised Rack-
straw graciously, as though he were helping the other
out with a loan. "I'll see what I can do."
Inskipp with a nod, let the matter rest there for
the moment. He was indeed hard pressed, and his
face grew careworn as he stood turning over what
he had best do. Some sort of reconstruction scheme
would certainly be put forward by the Receiver,
and in his opinion the shares had not been over-
valued at the price at which he had bought them.
Given time, he believed that a good deal, if not all,


SCARECROW
5X
of his money might yet be saved. But what was he
to do in the meantime? There was no help for it,
he must call in every outstanding farthing belonging
to him, and return to England.
The trouble was that in the middle of November,
Mireille had written asking him for a loan to help
her get her divorce. She had explained that under
the will of a French aunt, she would inherit the
equivalent of around three thousand pounds, but
only when de Pra was dead, or divorced by her.
The aunt in question had so much disliked the
marriage. She had sent Inskipp a copy of her
aunt's will, and the name of her solicitor who lived
at Clermont Ferrand, and added that she would
need about seven hundred pounds at least, that the
solicitor in question had offered to lend her the
money, but at such extortionate interest that she
was very unwilling to accept his offer.
Inskipp had written to the man, and had had a
letter from him. Inskipp had wanted to know
whether there was any doubt about the divorce
being ultimately obtainable. The reply had been
entirely reassuring. The avocat had explained,
however, that it might cost nearer a thousand than
seven hundred pounds, as very expert medical
opinions on the question of Mr. de Pra's sanity and
impossibility of his condition improving would have to
be obtained. He had lived a long time in Indo-China,
this would mean extra expense. Maitre Francois
added that he could easily raise the sum, but that the
client who was prepared to advance it insisted on the
high interest to which Madame de Pra objected.
Inskipp thought of going to Clermont-Ferrand,
but the journey from Menton was difficult and long,
with many changes. Nor would he, a stranger, be
able to rely on his judgment of the character of this


5*
SCARECROW
Maitre Francois. He must get some information
about him from a reliable source. And then he
remembered that at the Menton branch of the
English Bank, the manager had once spoken of
knowing Auvergne well. Clermont-Ferrand is the
capital of Auvergne.
He went down to Menton, and cashed a note at the
bank in question, waiting about until he caught
sight of the manager. Then he stepped forward.
Could the manager spare him a few minutes in
private? A most obliging man promptly took him
into his own room and offered him a chair.
Inskipp explained that he had been given the
name of a Maitre Francois, as that of a good avocat
of Clermont-Ferrand. Could the manager tell him
what was his reputation.
The manager promptly told Inskipp that his
affairs could be in no better hands, especially if they
belonged to what he might call the family type.
"I don't know him personally, but every one in
Auvergne knows his name. He rather specialises in
divorce cases, but by no means entirely. I hear he
is being very much pressed to go into politics. You
will be lucky if he takes on any new business."
"Is he well-to-do? Frankly, it's a question of a
lady placing rather a large sum of money in his
hands to be applied to—er—legal work."
"My dear sir, a Frenchman doesn't think of
entering politics if he is not well-to-do! Maitre
Francois is considered a rich man, and comes of a
very wealthy Clermont-Ferrand family. He belongs
to what they call the noblesse de robe."
Inskipp thanked the manager and left. The next
Eost carried a letter to Mireille saying that he could
it her have the money without, of course, any
interest. Should he send his cheque to her, or to


SCARECROW
53
Maitre Francois? He had made it out, he wrote, for
a thousand pounds, the surplus to be retained tempor-
arily by the solicitor for unexpected emergencies.
She had written him a most giateful note, asking
him to send the money to Maitre Francois who would
draw up the proper papers for it to rank as a first
charge on her legacy from her aunt. She did not
want it sent by cheque, however, as it would so
remain entered on his books. Under the circum-
stances, she thought the money had best be sent
in 1,000-franc notes.
Inskipp thought it over, and decided that her
caution was justified.
The pound was exactly a hundred francs at the
moment, so that a very small packet of the thin,
beautiful, French notes made up the equivalent of
the sum wanted. Inskipp obtained them at the
bank in Menton against his cheque, and, for addi-
tional safety in the post, had the manager make a
note of their numbers.
Maitre Francois duly acknowledged the notes,
enclosed some papers for Inskipp to sign, and said
that the figure set was an outside estimate which
he hoped not to have to reach.
Mireille wrote to Inskipp scolding him tenderly
for his generosity. She herself was living very cheaply
at the convent, and would be at still less expense in
the future, as the time had now come for her yearly
round of inescapable family visits to begin. Inskipp
was to continue to send all his letters as, at her
request, he had done the last ones to her, care of
Maitre Francois. Otherwise, Mireille wrote, she and
he could not correspond at all. The idea of her
receiving a letter in an unknown handwriting—a
man's too—without reading it aloud, was unthink-
able to her family circle. As for her arm—it was


54
SCARECROW
healing very well, but she still could not hold any-
thing small, such as a needle, or even a pen, in her
fingers without her hand aching badly. Her relations
always went to one or other of the many French
spas and were already discussing which would be
best for her arm. No, she could not get away to
La Chhire d'Or yet. But once her three months' duty
round was over, she could come—and come without
rousing comment, and be there for the spring
parade of Provence.
When the blow of his almost unsaleable shares
fell on him, Inskipp thought it over, thinking for
two people, himself and his future wife, Mireille—
for they were by now definitely engaged—and it
seemed to him that there was but one thing to do.
Mireille must borrow from her solicitor the equivalent
of the thousand pounds which he had lent her;
and he—Inskipp—would take back his own loan
and pay the ten per cent interest asked by the
solicitor's client. It could not be much longer now
before the divorce went through—another three
months at most, thought the Clermont man, and
then the money could be repaid from the legacy
coming to Mireille. As for himself, Inskipp believed
that if he went and had a personal interview, his
own old Stock Exchange firm, who happened to
have just lost a partner, might let him come in
again with his depreciated shares as his investment
and, since he was returning to the House, he could
arrange to be let off the purchase price of his seat,
or at any rate have it lessened to a sum which he
could raise. Meanwhile, with the return of the
thousand by Mireille he could live, and as his income
from the firm he intended to join would, after the
first year, be quite adequate, he and Mireille could
start life together in comfort if not in luxury. But


56
SCARECROW
he said, of ultimately finding a lender, but, just at
the moment money was very tight. That he did
not think the loan an impossibility, was the great
thing, Inskipp decided, for Francois had struck
him from his letters as a man who would be
ultra cautious in money matters. He probably
was equally cautious in his promises. But there
would be no more loans to Rackstraw. Both he and
Inskipp believed that they ought to sell the scenario
for a good figure. Rackstraw, who had quite a fair
knowledge of such things, talked of an out and out
sale for four thousand pounds. Still, there must be
no more loans. . . .
Having given Rackstraw his ultimatum as it
were, Inskipp went for a slow walk and on his return
he looked around for Norbury. He might as well
know that his—Inskipp's—stay was drawing to a
close. He came on him sitting in the hot sunlight
against an old wall entering the weights of basket
of oranges as they were called after him.
Inskipp told him that he must shortly go home.
At the moment he could not give the exact date.
"Any complaints?" Norbury asked.
Inskipp said that he had been extremely comfort-
able. It was necessity, not choice, that was making
him leave.
"I may have to go home very shortly myself,
though it is January," said Norbury now. We
might go together. When my wife and I were in
Marseilles in November, doing the farm's annual
purchases, we heard of a man in London who wanted
to act as an agent for Riviera produce. Honey and
raisind especially. I've had his position looked into,
and been corresponding with him, and now the deal
is ready to go through. The sooner the better, but
I won't close without having seen him."


CHAPTER VI
SOME OLD NEWSPAPERS FURNISH
INTERESTING READING
It was sometime in the late afternoon that Inskipp
drew up his plans more definitely. In reply to
another letter of his to Maitre Francois, that gentle
man had written that he had now found a client who
would make Madame de Pra a loan on her aunt's
legacy. It was difficult to say what displeased
Inskipp about the note. An absence of precision,
perhaps. It looked to him as though Maitre Francois
were more concerned about running up a big bill of
costs than about securing the loan. That seemed
odd in a man of his reputation. . . . The whole
letter, however, seemed odd to him, though he could
not put his finger on the exact reason for the feeling.
He decided that he would stop over at Clermont
long enough to interview the maitre. And he decided
also that he would not give him any preliminary
warning.
The man's letters hitherto had impressed him very
favourably. He wrote very fluent English. If he
spoke the language as well as he wrote it, they should
soon be able to understand each other. Inskipp
only hoped profoundly that the tone he detected
in the last letter did not mean that the lawyer was
not as certain now about securing a divorce for
Mireille as he had seemed before.
Had something unforeseen happened? Had some
new law been passed? Or was one about to be
passed? The mere possibility weighed on Inskipp
57


58
SCARECROW
profoundly. But he hoped soon to have his mind
set at rest. He found that Rackstraw was per-
fectly willing to leave for England in a week's
time, provided they went by train and boat. That
arranged, Inskipp went again in search of Norbury.
He found him in one of his barns, with a big
stand of pears and a pile of old newspapers. Each
pear was to be wrapped afresh before being laid
back again on its tray. At the moment Norbury
was not working. He was lying on his stomach
on a spread-out paper apparently engrossed in read-
ing its contents.
At the sound of Inskipp's steps, Norbury promptly
rolled over so as to completely cover the paper.
Then he looked up.
"Hard at work, I see," said Inskipp, grinning.
"I heard you say that there's nothing like a glass
of Castellar to make you feel energetic."
"I said that it made one work like a nigger,"
corrected Norbury, getting up, " and it does!"
Norbury was putting together some sheets of the
many papers scattered around him. Evidently he
had been spending some time in reading. He now
held one out to Inskipp with the odd words," You're a
discreet chap; do you recognise that woman's face?"
Inskipp did not. He was never a keen observer.
"How about this one—same woman—but I've
altered it a little?" Norbury passed him another
paper, folded so that another portrait of the same
face showed. The face had had slanting eyebrows
pencilled in by Norbury, and instead of the neat
roll of long hair on the back of the neck that showed
in the picture, he had drawn straight, shingled hair
hanging on each side of the face.
"Why, it's Miss Blythe to the life !" Inskipp said
with a laugh.


SCARECROW
59
But Norbury did not laugh. He glanced at the
little window above them. It was shut.
"Look here, Inskipp, I can rely on that discretion
of yours—absolutely?"
"You can. But why?"
"Have a look at the name below the picture."
Puzzled, Inskipp opened up the paper. He read
aloud:
"' Mrs. Whin-Browning getting into her car.'
Mrs. Whin-Browning!" he repeated in a tone of
stupefaction.
Then he studied the altered face again.
"It's certainly awfully like Miss Blythe, but I
suppose altering a face like that, one might make all
sorts of likenesses"
"I haven't altered it except as Miss Blythe has
done," said Norbury meaningly. "/ didn't change
the eyebrows and darken the hair."
"Good God !" came from Inskipp, who was now
staring as though hypnotised at the portrait. " You
think—it's not possible!"
"Look at this," said Norbury, pulling out another
sheet. It showed a young man in flannels.
"That's Blythe! said Inskipp instantly, " and a
jolly good picture of him too 1 He stopped as he
read the words below the snapshot.
"Just so," said Norbury meaningly. "' Hector
Whin-Browning playing cricket.' He was the younger
brother of the one who died. He didn't appear in
the case at all, as he was in Paris at the time. Well,
I don't think there's much doubt who the two
Blythes really are."
Inskipp nodded in silence.
About a year ago, a London barrister named
Ambrose Whin-Browning had died from influenza,
it was thought. A couple of weeks later his sister,


6o
SCARECROW
who lived with him and his wife, died also. This
time there was an autopsy, which was promptly
followed by the exhumation of the brother's body.
Both deaths were proved to have been the results
of arsenical poisoning.
The case had been an amazing one. It had shaken
all England, though it had only progressed as far
as the inquest stage, for the coroner, who was also a
solicitor, had made the most of his out-of-date
powers, and had conducted it as far as possible as a
trial of Mrs. Whin-Browning for the murder of her
husband and of her sister-in-law.
The third day of the inquest had been a Saturday.
In the afternoon, Edna Whin-Browning left her
home in Brighton where the two deaths had occurred,
and had gone for a swim. She never returned. Her
clothes were found close to a very dangerous cave,
one with a tremendous out-current, but the police
believed that she had made her way abroad.
The inquest had continued on the Monday
without her, and had finished on the Wednesday in
a verdict of murder against Mrs. Whin-Browning
on both counts.
For a month the papers had been filled with por-
traits of her, accounts of her past life—which proved
to be disappointingly blameless—and speculations
not; and if so, whether it had been accident or
suicide.
There was a silence—on Inskipp's part, of sheer
stupefaction as he studied the picture again.
"It certainly is her. Her face is much thinner—
she's altered the shape of her eyebrows, and she's
cut her hair short. I rather thought she was
innocent, only lost her nerve, and fled."
"So did 11" came from Norbury. "And I'm

drowned or


SCARECROW
61
still convinced that she is innocent. My belief was,
and is, that her companion, the young woman's
name was Marsh, I think—was in love with Whin-
Browning, that he got tired of her, and that Miss
Marsh did for him in revenge. And, because she sus-
pected, or saw, something, the sister had to go too.
Evidently the brother thinks his sister-in-law—our
Miss Blythe—innocent. Or he wouldn't be standing
by her. Without him, I don't see how she could keep
afloat. If innocent, she wouldn't have made any
arrangements about her money." There followed
another silence.
"Her running away was what turned the scales
against her in most people's opinion," said Inskipp.
He had had no time for papers himself at the time
of the inquest except financial ones, but no one had
talked of much else for a fortnight.
"What turned the scales against her was the
spiteful evidence of the companion, Miss Marsh.
The person who I believe to've done the poisoning.
As to getting away—only thing to do, in my
opinion. She was for it, if she had stayed!" said
Norbury, getting up.
"How did you come on these?"
"The British Club at Menton sent them with a
cart-load of others. I always buy their thrown-out
newspapers. It was mere chance, as I was cutting
them into squares, that the likeness struck me, and
then I saw that one of the brother—of Blythe—and
knew!"
"And do you also know, what are you going to
do?" asked Inskipp.
"Nothing," Norbury replied with conviction,
"unless keeping silence is doing something. She's
greatly to be pitied," he went on after a moment.
"A wealthy woman—turned into an outcast."


6a
SCARECROW
"Wealthy ?" Inskipp asked. An idea had struck
him.
"Very. The coroner made a lot of capital out
of the fact that each death was tremendously to
her advantage. Her husband had left everything
to her, except a large bequest to his sister—he only
had the one—which, if the latter died unmarried
before his wife, was to go to the wife. Mrs. Whin-
Browning had had no settlements made on her when
she married."
"So that, before the casualties, the lady hadn't
much money?"
"Not a penny piece, except as her husband allowed
it to her. The coroner made a lot of that too. She
must have around eighty thousand now—which
she can't touch." Norbury pulled the stack of
papers towards himself and began to look them over.
Remember, I have your word to keep this discovery
of mine to yourself! I shall burn these papers."
"May I keep them for a bit? An idea has just
struck me." Inskipp's face was alight. "If she's
innocent"
"Oh, she is! I'll stake the farm on that!"
"If I agree with you, when I've carefully gone
through them again, I might offer my services to
Mrs. Whin"
Norbury's finger stopped him. "I think we'd
better not use that name!"
"Quite right !—To Miss Blythe. If I do offer to
help her, and if she thinks that amateur help can
be any good to her, I might see what can be done
when I get back to England. I'm afraid I should
have to ask a payment."
"Of course, you must ask a good one. It's worth
it," Norbury said promptly.
"I might suggest five hundred," said Inskipp.


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63
"Half down; the remainder if I succeed. I
shouldn't be able to devote my time to it otherwise,
and I should like immensely to undertake it"
"So should I, if I could spare the time," said
Norbury, " but I can't. This farm takes all my time.
And if I do start an agency in London to sell Riviera
produce, that will mean no end of book-keeping.
As to the newspapers—take them by all means.
As many as you want—but keep them locked away
very carefully. It's life or death to that poor woman."
"I certainly will, but I had to tell you of what's
in my mind," said Inskipp, "as I had promised
you to say nothing about what you were telling me."
"That only applies to the world in general—and
here at the farm in particular."
Norbury and Inskipp together weeded out the
papers that dealt with the Whin-Browning case,
and then, leaving Norbury to get on with his fruit,
Inskipp stepped out into the sunshine. Going
round the other side of the wing, he almost fell over
Rackstraw lying in the shade of the wall just under
the window of the room where he and Norbury had
been talking. Fortunately, Rackstraw's naps were
known for their heaviness. Lying on his back, his
mouth open, he looked the picture of slumber.
Inskipp stepped across him, and made his way to
his own room.
The terror which he had read in Edna Blythe's
face when she heard that Florence Rackstraw had
fallen and been killed when alone with Blythe . . .
her flight—for it had been that—to Nice. ... He
saw that probably what had frightened her was the
police inquiry which Florence's death might entail.
Very likely the letter that he was to hand Blythe
and not leave in his room for him, referred to
this. The passports of herself and Blythe would


64
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be in their real names. Norbury let his guests
fill in their own "arrival papers." That, Inskipp
saw, was probably the reasons why the brother and
sister had stayed, and intended to stay, on at the
farm. Blythe, too, had not shown his to the police,
and had not gone down to the British Consulate at
Nice. All Miss Blythe's dislike of strangers was ex-
plained now, as well as her own and her brother's with-
drawal, as much as possible, from their fellow guests.
Inskipp went carefully through the papers. Then he
locked them away in his suitcase, and sat on thinking.
He was not satisfied. He was not so sure of the
woman's innocence as he had been before he had
read all the facts. He wanted to be. He would like
to help her—if she were innocent.
It occurred to him that he had a means of testing
that innocence. If he offered to go to England to
rehabilitate Mrs. Whin-Browning, and if she agreed
to his terms—that, Inskipp decided, would prove
her to be, as Norbury maintained, only unfortunate
—not guilty.
Inskipp ran lightly up the stairs to the sitting-
room of the so-called brother and sister which was
in the west wing.
Inskipp closed the door carefully behind him.
"Forgive my bursting in on you like this," he said
as he did so. "I want to talk to you two—quite
frankly—if I may."
He did not dare give himself time to think.
"Sit down," said Blythe, and something in his
tone suggested a man who might not be quite so
-going as his face looked. As for Miss Blythe, she
turned quite pale.
"I am going back to England shortly, and I
wondered whether, while there, I might not be able
to serve you, Miss Blythe."


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65
She stared at him, too taken by surprise to
speak—or too frightened.
"I'm going to England shortly," said Blythe
in a level tone, " so that I don't see"
"You might be handicapped—Mr. Whin-Brown-
ing," said Inskipp in a whisper, coming very close
to him. "I should be quite free to get things cleared
up without any one suspecting that there was a
connection between us."
There followed a moment of absolute silence.
Miss Blythe had leapt to her feet and stood now
staring at his face. He turned so that she could see
it clearly. As for Blythe, he had stepped back, but
his fists had clenched. There was a very ugly look
on his features.
"Suppose you let me talk to Miss Blythe first,
by ourselves," suggested Inskipp. "If she accepts
the offer of my help, then we three will go into the
matter together. If she declines, then the whole affair
will be instantly buried."
For an instant, their eyes met. In hers was a look
of agonised hope. Only an innocent woman, Inskipp
believed, could look like that at such a moment, and
he felt sure of his ground.
Blythe came closer, the veins on his neck and
temples were swollen, but his face was now paler
than his sister-in-law's.
"My name is Blythe, and I'll thank you to
remember it !" he said icily. "As for any help—we
need no proffered services."
Standing behind him, but a little to one side,
Inskipp caught a warning, and yet an imploring
look, from Miss Blythe. It only lasted for a second,
then she looked down at her tightly-clasped hands.
"I don't see how you are going to prevent my
talking to your sister alone," Inskipp said, facing up


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to Blythe. He did not like the look on the man's
face at all. "Unless you mean that you consider
her your prisoner"
Blythe took a step towards him and for a moment
Inskipp thought that there was going to be a rough
house. But after standing for a second, almost
shoulder to shoulder, Blythe turned away to the
woman.
"What do you say ?" he asked in a surly tone.
"I want to hear what Mr. Inskipp proposes,"
Miss Blythe said with composure. "If you will go
for a walk for an hour, that would give us plenty of
time to thrash the question out, and have something
definite to tell you on your return."
"You're a fool, Edna !" said Blythe in a warning
tone, " the only thing to do now, is to lock this busy-
body up where he can't do any harm, and get away—
over into Italy, and through it into that other place
I know of"
"No," Edna said firmly, " the offer was made to
me, concerns me, I want to hear what Mr. Inskipp has
to say. I want an hour to talk it over."
"Do you, by God!" The words were a snarl.
"He'll have to settle with me, remember."
She turned to him with a smile.
"Of course he will. Naturally he will. Now leave
us here for an hour. Unless you want us to go for a
walk"
"No," said Blythe very ungraciously, " this is the
safest place for a private talk. I'm off. For exactly
sixty minutes."
Blythe stamped heavily down the wooden stairs.
Edna stood listening intently, she went to the
window to watch his burly figure making off by the
maize plantations, then she turned, her face all
white and quivering.


CHAPTER VII
INSKIPP UNDERTAKES A COMMISSION
"And now, Mr. Inskipp, what is it exactly that
you have to say to me?"
Edna Blythe sat down on a very hard, stiff, sofa
and motioned him to sit beside her. Her face was
more composed, but she was still trembling.
"First of all, I want you to feel certain that I
come as a friend," he said awkwardly. "I know who
you are, and I realise what a hole you are in. I
realise, too, that, however much he wants to help
you, Blythe must be handicapped by his relation-
ship to you—and by his name. He can hardly work
at clearing you without attracting attention.
Whereas I, a complete stranger"
"How did you learn about me ?" she asked in a
whisper.
"Some old papers—which I have safely locked
away in my room."
"Portraits?" she whispered.
"Especially that of your brother-in-law," he
agreed.
"And—does any one else know?" She could
hardly get the words out. Looking into her face of
terror, Inskipp evaded a truthful reply. "I've not
shown them to any one. I've locked them up
securely."
"Oh, thank you !" she breathed, too agitated to
notice that he had not really answered her.
"I am convinced of your innocence," he went on,
under his breath, " I would like to help you. I have
67


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69
I didn't love my husband. The coroner knew that
from that odious Marsh woman. My solicitor had
learnt that he was going to come out with that when
the inquest opened again—on Monday."
This was news to Inskipp.
"I can't marry Hector," she jumped to her feet.
"The very look of him—he's like his brother—his
mere presence in the room—I've been thinking lately
that I should have to kill myself to end it," she went
on in a rush of emotion.
"He loves you?" Inskipp asked. He had to
know where he stood.
"Yes. He helped me to escape. Nothing can
alter the gratitude I ought to feel for him for that,
you may say, but he has altered it—swept it all
away. He will only help to prove me innocent if I
marry him. I have put him off—asked for time—
but I thought I should have to give in—or take the
only way out."
"Can he clear you? I mean, does he know any
one, definite, fact which would do this?"
She shook her head sadly.
"No. But like you—like any one who would try
to help me—he would have to see where he could
catch Miss Marsh out. For she was the poisoner, Mr.
Inskipp. And there must be some trace of it.
Poison can't be bought without signing books—
without people knowing about it"
"And Hector Whin-Browning has insisted on
marriage in return for saving you?" It was an
infernal bargain, Inskipp thought.
She nodded.
"But surely you could have got out of it," he
went on. "I mean, no one would have blamed you
if you had promised him, and then thrown him
over? Besides, what about your names leaking


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out? If you were married under false names, and
each knew it, the marriage wouldn't be valid. You
would be free."
"That was my first hope," she said, but with a
stricken face, " but he warned me he wouldn't set to
work until a month after the marriage. But, if you
can let me do without him altogether "a look of
rejoicing swept for an instant over her face.
"I will do my best," he said firmly.
"Lately he's beginning to realise that he can't
stir to help me himself without leading them
eventually to my hiding-place and bringing himself
under suspicion of being an accessory after the fact.
And that's a point that I hope you have thought
over, Mr. Inskipp"—she bent closer towards
him—" should you fail, should you be unable to
clear me—you may get into dreadful trouble
yourself for concealing my whereabouts."
Inskipp was well aware of such a danger, but he
thought it a remote one. Even if he failed to clear
Mrs. Whin-Browning, he did not expect to be
suspected of knowing her hiding-place.
"Would Blythe give me away ?" Inskipp asked
promptly.
going to marry him. In that case he might act on
some impulse."
"I wonder if it would relieve matters if he knew,
in confidence, that I am looking forward to my own
marriage? This is her photograph "Inskipp
took out a portrait from an inner pocket which
brought an exclamation of admiration from Edna.
"But how beautiful—how absolutely beautiful!
Who is she?"
Inskipp pocketed the photograph again. "Her
name is Mireille. The engagement is really a secret,"

thought that I might not be


72
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ful position—to clear you "Inskipp's generous
heart was aghast.
"He does. But he had hoped to do it on his own
terms, though I think he's just beginning to realise
that that may be impossible."
There was a silence for a moment.
"When that accident happened to Miss Rack-
straw "he began tentatively.
Edna interrupted him impulsively. "I was
terrified. So was he! An inquiry into her death
might have meant our discovery. I hadn't even a
Ijassport then that I could show. I mean," she
ooked uneasy, "I mean my own passport is so
dangerous. I thought I should go out of my mind
with the terror of what might be ahead of me!
That was why I rushed down to Nice. I've been angry
with myself ever since, that I didn't go farther—
get away, that I returned to the farm. But now—
now—there's a chance of being really set free from
this dreadful, everlasting hiding, this perpetual
fear!"
"What about the casinos?" he asked suddenly.
"How do you manage, if you want to play?"
She stared in what appeared to be honest
surprise. "I never play. My husband used to.
But he lost so much, that it cured me of any liking
for gambling."
So Blythe had not been telling the truth. He had
only wanted to make sure that Edna should not
have the means to run away! It was a horrid
idea.
The two of them drew up a simple contract.
Hector Whin-Browning would insist on what would
be called by that name, but this private one
acknowledged the payment to Inskipp of two
hundred and fifty pounds, with the promise of


SCARECROW
73
another equal amount if, and when, Mrs. Whin-
Browning could return to England without any
danger of arrest.
Inskipp had wondered whether she would be
willing to accept him on his own terms. For all she
could tell, this might be just the first edge of black-
mail. He might have no intention of doing any-
thing whatever for the money.
He said as much to her, putting it quite
bluntly.
She gave him a tragic look. "I have to chance
that," she said sombrely.
"But then—I have to chance so much more than
that. I have to chance my neck." She said the last
words slowly and with an irrepressible shiver. And
he felt his own scalp tingle. "If you don't
succeed "she broke off. And then pulled herself
together. "But I feel sure that you will! I am
innocent. So some one else must be guilty. I never
have believed in these detective stories which make
all sorts of complications twist around a crime. It's
so untrue to life. I don't think that you, or any one
with brains, who would make the effort, couldn't
clear up any crime in a couple of days. Here, it's a
question of a very few people who could have done
it—I'm out of it. That leaves really only Miss
Marsh as the suspect. Concentrate on her, and you
can't go wrong."
Inskipp felt that there was something in this
advice.
"I suppose your solicitor would have done that,
if it had come to a trial ?—I mean, have concen-
trated on your companion, Miss Marsh?"
"He thought me guilty," she said wearily.
"The only one who really believed in me was
Hector—and the servants. It might pay you to


SCARECROW
75
town to hear what I have to tell you about the two
deaths"
"But you haven't anything to say—you weren't
in England !" protested Edna Blythe.
"Inskipp will call on me to learn that I have
nothing to tell him," insisted Blythe, " in that way
we shall meet at my club. After that, while I'm in
town, I should expect to keep in touch with him,
and hear how he is getting on, for he will be looking
into the case for me. After all, Edna, though
Ambrose and I didn't hit it off extra well, I assure
you I'm more than interested in clearing up his
murder."
"I can't stay here alone," Edna said to that.
"If you two go to England, I think I might venture
—must venture—to get nearer to home."
But Blythe would not hear of it, and Inskipp, too,
begged her to stay in this out-of-the-way place where
no questions would be asked about her. Inskipp
hoped that it would not be for long, that a very few
weeks might let them send for her to join them, but
until they should send word, she must not jeopardise
her life.
When he left the two, he saw Norbury in a shed
wheeling his wire trays into a dark, airy corner. A
glance from him, and Inskipp whispered, "Terms
agreed. I'm to get to work," before he passed on. In
his own room, he paced up and down, turning over
the facts as far as he knew them. He was learning
them by heart as though for an examination.
Names, places, and hours that mattered. It was,
as Edna Blyth had said, a seemingly simple case.
The only two possible criminals seemed to be herself, .
or her companion, Miss Marsh.
And yet, his first glow over, Inskipp was struck
with the insufficiency of motive in the latter's case.


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Even assuming, as so many did, as apparently
Edna Blythe knew, that there had been a love affair
between husband and companion, nothing fresh had
arisen to account for murder.
And then an idea occurred to him. Had Whin-
Browning made a new will? Was Miss Marsh's
name in it? Had he been poisoned because he had
threatened to destroy this second will? Had he
managed to do it, and had the poisoner slipped up
on the crime?
Inskipp decided that he would investigate along
that line first of all. That decided, he switched his
mind to his own affairs. The two hundred and fifty
pounds would be very useful. He would spend as
little as possible on himself, and be as careful of the
money as he could. Inskipp knew many a cheap
place in London, or at least he knew where to find
them. He might not need to look them up. Only
after his talk with Maitre Francois at Clermont
would he know just where he stood, and how much
likelihood there was of a speedy loan to Mireille,
which would free his own, urgently needed, thousand
pounds.
He had a talk with Edna the next day, when
he chanced on her alone in a sunny spot. He
did not mention the possibility of a second will,
but he spoke of hoping to see Miss Marsh on his
arrival in London. She had a sister employed in
the post office, and through her he ought to be able
to find where she was now staying. I shall write
and ask for an interview. I shall pose to her as a
mere acquaintance of Blythe's writing up the case,"
he added.
"But the danger of going directly to her?"
Edna protested. " Oh, Mr. Inskipp, the real, personal,
danger! Once a poisoner, you know! I think you


SCARECROW
77
ought to proceed more carefully—more subtly, if I
may say so. Find out all you can of her past life,
yes—but don't for goodness' sake go directly to
her!"
Inskipp told himself that it was charming of her
to care for his safety so keenly, but he was con-
scious that he would have preferred a vigorous
assent. Somehow such solicitude—in a woman in
her desperate case—she must have a very unselfish
nature—very! Of course, obviously, she could not
be afraid of anything he might learn from the one-
time companion—she could not be hiding anything
from him. No woman in her position would be so
mad; and Inskipp had learnt to have a great
respect for Miss Blythe's brains these last hours.
No foolish woman could have kept to the point as
she had done in their talk. No, no, he told himself,
as he left her under her umbrella, the cigales chirp-
ing all around her, she was merely too sensitive.
Women were like that. There was Mireille first
and foremost, who never seemed to think of her-
self. And here was poor Mrs. Whin-Browning.
. . . Inskipp determined to do all that was humanly
possible to set her free from her dreadful position.


CHAPTER VIII
INSKIPP GOES TO DOVER
There was quite a party from La Chfore d'Or
starting off for England together. Elsie Cameron
went, too. She was going first to Aries and then on
to Cassis—that haunt of the artist in Provence.
There was nothing to detain her at the farm. Her
sketches were finished, and finished also was any
chance she might ever have had of being more to
Inskipp than the merest of acquaintances. For
weeks she had hoped—then half hoped—then almost
hoped. Now there was certainty. From Cassis she
was returning to her home in Perth, and it would
be years before she would see Menton and its
valleys again.
Inskipp only told the others of his proposed stop
at Clermont-Ferrand when they were getting their
tickets in Menton on the Friday afternoon of their
departure. Blythe had anyway wanted to stay over
the Saturday in Paris. Rackstraw had an appoint-
ment for early Monday morning with one of what
he called his "film magnates," a man who lived
just outside Dover. He wanted Inskipp to accom-
pany him, and the latter saw no reason why this
should not be possible. By leaving the Menton-
Paris train at night, Inskipp could be in Clermont
before eight the next morning. And, should all be
well, he expected to go on to Paris by the half-past
two express in the afternoon.
They talked the time-table over at Cook's, bought
their tickets, and drove on up the charming gardens
to the little station above them.
78


SCARECROW
79
Inskipp wondered what would have happened
before he saw this scene again. Edna Blythe would,
he hoped, be set free from her really horrible impasse.
And he himself might be in a vastly different posi-
tion. It was even possible that he might not come
back alone, that beside him might be a lovely
girl ... if all went well, Menton would make a
charming stop on a honeymoon
"Inskipp, Inskipp!" came Laroche's voice in
half-real, half-mocking concern, as the car stopped at
the station. The Frenchman was seeing them off.
"You look again as though you had seen the Golden
Goat! Remember, whoever sees him will never
afterwards be content. He will always want some-
thing he cannot have."
"But what I want I'm going to get!" laughed
Inskipp as he got out and turned his attention to
his luggage. Mrs. Norbury and Edna Blythe had
not come with the Frenchman. The former had
caught a chill, and the latter had told Inskipp sadly
that she could not bear to see them leaving for
home and be condemned to stay behind. At last
the Ventimiglia-Marseilles-Paris express was sig-
nalled. They took their seats, Laroche swung his
hat gaily, and the train steamed out on a far more
momentous journey than most of the people on
her suspected.
Marseilles was reached at a little after ten at
night, and there Inskipp said good-bye to a very
cool and distant Elsie, promised the others not to
overstay his time, and got out. His train to Cler-
mont-Ferrand left in two hours. In it he found an
empty carriage, and promptly went to sleep till
half-past seven saw him getting his things together
at his destination. He had been passing through a
quite pretty agricultural countryside—chiefly dairy


8o
SCARECROW
farms—and now, at the foot of the true volcanic
outline of the Puy de Dome, he saw a very straggly,
uninteresting-looking town lying before him. In-
skipp had a long and thorough breakfast, and
then went for a walk to kill time till it should be
ten o'clock.
Clermont—and Ferrand, too—the older capital
joined on to it—had nothing to offer Inskipp.
Passing a bank which was just opening, he saw
that it was a branch of one he knew by name. He
was very tired of walking about. It occurred to him
that he might put in a few minutes asking still
another authority about the reputation of the man
whom he wanted to see. He cashed a traveller's
cheque and asked for the " directeur," who happened
to be just coming in. To him he put very much
the same questions as he had to Mr. Squires, and
received as absolute an assurance of Maitre Francois'
standing.
"If he told you that he was arranging—say a
loan—do you think he can be relied on—as to time,
I mean? It's a rather important affair."
"If our Maitre Francois told you that the affair
would be completed in a given time—you can rely
on his limit absolutely. He has the reputation of
always being very cautious about his promises, but
of keeping them to the letter—and to the minute.
He has some very big families among his clients. We
are very proud of our Maitre Francois, I assure you!"
Inskipp reached for his hat, and felt that he had
been a fool to worry. He almost regretted that he
had taken the time—and spent the money—on his
trip here. Outside of the bank he made his way to
the Rue Jaude. Its appearance surprised him.
Had he come straight here without having had
any information about the lawyer, he would not


SCARECROW
81
have expected to find a local celebrity installed in
it. Half-way down the tumble-down street a man
was leaning against the wall glancing at some ad-
vertisement hoardings. The house appeared to be
the one for which Inskipp was searching. The man
moved. Inskipp then saw that his back had hidden
a brass sign on which were the words: Mattre
Francois du Barreau de Clermont-Ferrand.
The door was standing open. He stepped inside,
and the man who had been outside immediately
followed him.
"You wish to see Maitre Francois? You have a
rendezvous?" he asked.
Inskipp said that he had no appointment, but
that he wanted a word with the lawyer all the
same. He gave his name, and added that he was a
client of Maitre Francois.
"In that case . . ." said the man courteously,
and opened a door leading into a large room. He
excused himself for a moment as he shut it.
The outside of the house had seemed to suit the
shimmy street, so had the passage, but Inskipp had
never stood in a handsomer room than this. Nor
one in which money proclaimed its presence more
clearly. The carpet was wonderful—he did not
know how wonderful, for its softly-coloured wreaths
of flowers had been woven at Aubusson. Old
tapestries in black frames covered the walls. The
furniture was of " white " walnut, very beautifully
carved. The large arm-chairs were of dun-coloured
leather. Two superb bronzes stood on tables. As
for the door into another room beyond, it and the
skirting boards were gilded—a soft, almost matt
gilding.
He took a chair and told himself in future never
to judge a French house by its outside.


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The man whom he had seen before came in. He
introduced himself as Maitre Francois' head clerk,
by name Oreille, and went on to say that the Maitre
was away—pleading a very important case at the
St. Etienne Assizes—and might not be back for
days. Monsieur Oreille repeated his regrets, and
offered Inskipp a box of cigars which matched the
sumptuousness of the room. Yet Inskipp wondered
at the rims of the nails which held out the box. They
did not look as though they had been cleaned for
years, and there was a touch of gilding about one
of them that looked as though Monsieur Oreille,
like an animal, kept his nails trimmed by scratching
the woodwork.
He took one of the cigars, and found it better
than his dreams. He asked Oreille if he knew about
his—Inskipp's—business, and was told that the
head clerk knew nothing beyond the name. Maitre
Francois always kept his clients' affairs strictly to
himself. They chatted a little longer, and then
Inskipp took his leave. Oreille went to the door
with him, talking volubly. So volubly that Inskipp
did not notice that over the brass plate now hung
two of the hoardings announcing coming sales of
property at which Oreille had been gazing when
Inskipp had arrived.
As he walked away, Inskipp again told himself
that he would be a fool to worry further, that he
had been a fool to have worried at all. He must be
patient and wait for Maitre Francois to arrange
the loan in his own time. The Frenchman had
written that he hoped to have the money very
shortly. Inskipp must rest content with that.
Finally his train came in, and he was able to go
on to Paris. It was only when the train had started
that he remembered that he had not given Maitre


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83
Francois—through his head clerk—the address in
Dover which would find him from to-morrow—
Sunday—night, till at least Wednesday night,
possibly longer. Rackstraw's hopes of interesting
his film friend in Haroun might mean a longish
stay, and his own inquiries for and of Mrs. Whin-
Browning's one-time parlourmaid might mean that
he would have to be some days in the old port. He
hurriedly scribbled a few lines at the first stop—St.
Germain des Fosses—and gave his address as " The
Lord Bishop Hotel, Dover." He posted his letter
in the St. Germain station just five minutes before
the next collection.
Next morning he proudly showed himself at the
Paris breakfast-table as a man of his word, and the
four of them took the midday boat train for Calais.
On the train Inskipp, for the first time since they
had left the farm, had a chance for a talk alone
with Blythe.
They settled themselves in an empty compart-
ment, and Blythe, at Inskipp's suggestion, told
him about the home life of the Whin-Brownings.
He had been talking some time when he let a word
drop about Edna's mother, which surprised his
hearer.
"Mrs. Whin-Browning's mother? Is she alive?"
Inskipp asked.
Blythe hesitated for a moment. Then: "Oh,
certainly. Certainly. But now about my brother's
will"
But Inskipp was curious. He learnt that Edna's
maiden name had been Thompson, and that her
father had been in the War Office.
"I ought to get in touch with her mother,"
Inskipp said promptly.

She's only interested in


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cats. She liked my brother, poor Ambrose, but
she rarely visited him and Edna. She knows
nothing of their home life"
"I might find her of use," Inskipp persisted.
"Where does she live?"
"The last I heard of her she was somewhere in
Egypt—Luxor, I fancy." Blythe spoke vaguely,
but there was a look about the mouth that Inskipp
by now knew meant vexation, and, on Rackstraw
looking in, the two went back with him for Bridge.
It was during the first rubber that Inskipp, while
dummy, idly looked through some magazines and
weeklies bought in Paris. In a Looker-on a name
below a photograph caught his eye: "Mrs.
Thompson, judging at the Cirencester Cat Show."
He re-called how, some time ago, Florence Rack-
straw had queried the pronunciation of Cirencester,
and how Edna Blythe had said, " Sister," without
thinking, and very definitely. The paper went on
to say that Mrs. Thompson was herself an owner
of some fine tortoiseshells she bred at her home,
Newburn Cottage, Cirencester, which she hoped to
exhibit at the coming cat show at the Crystal
Palace.
Inskipp noted the address. More, he got a letter
pad out of his suitcase and, later on, wrote to Mrs.
Thompson. He wanted, he said, to buy a tortoise-
shell cat, and asked her to reply to the Lord Bishop
Hotel at Dover.
He had been intrigued by the effort of Blythe to
keep him from getting into touch with Edna's
mother.


CHAPTER IX
THE PARTY OF FOUR BREAK UP
In the Customs Shed at Calais, Inskipp's letter to
Mrs. Thompson fell out on the floor. Luckily
Blythe, though standing next to him, did not seem
to see it, for it fell face up, and a moment later
Inskipp retrieved the envelope, to post it later in
Dover on his arrival.
It was a very bad crossing, but the effects of a
short bout of sea-sickness are very quickly over,
and when they found that there would be no diffi-
culty about getting rooms at the Lord Bishop Hotel,
Blythe ordered cocktails of unusual magnificence.
Inskipp asked whether there were any letters for
him. In return, a square, unmistakable " foreign"
looking envelope was handed him. It had just
that moment arrived, and was from Clermont-
Ferrand. In one corner it was marked Par'Avion.
A premonition came to Inskipp as he took it. A
certainty of some bad news. Tearing it open, he
found that his own letter, written on the train and
posted in St. Germain des Fosses, had been returned
to him. The covering letter was in French. It
was signed Andr6 Francois. Must be a relative,
Inskipp thought. A son, probably, for lus other
letters had been signed simply—A. Francois. He
settled himself down to read, and when he did
so he felt stunned. The letter ran in French:
"Monsieur,—I am returning to you a letter
which was opened by my secretary just now, as

85


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it seemed intended for me. But the contents
show that there is a mistake. Your name is not
known to me. We have never corresponded.
So why send me your address? And yet there
is no other lawyer of my name in Clermont-
Ferrand. I'm at a loss to understand how a
mistake has arisen, in which my name seems to
be involved—for evidently your letter is but part
of a correspondence. I hope this will reach you
by air-post to-morrow, Sunday, and I shall much
appreciate an explanation of what I find very
incomprehensible.
"Agreez, Monsieur, etc.,
"Andre Francois
"(de la Barre de Clermont-Ferrand)."
The paper was of a very expensive quality, and
had an address engraved in one corner. An address
in the Place de Jaude. Place de Jaude, not Rue
Jaude.
Inskipp felt like a man in a nightmare.
Blythe came across to him. "I hope there's
nothing wrong," he said in a tone of real concern,
but speaking very guardedly. "You look as if
you'd had a jolt. Nothing to do with—her?"
Inskipp shook his head. "No, no. It's a financial
affair," he muttered thickly. It was raining hard,
or he would have stepped out for a walk. As it was,
he went in to the writing-room, which happened
to be deserted, and read the letter through again
and yet again.
What had happened? To whom had Mireille
been led to confide her case? To whom had he
sent that thousand pounds in French notes?
Obviously the Maitre Francois, whose praises had
been sung by two bank managers, was not the A.


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87
Francois whose gorgeous office in the dingy house
in the obscure little street had been visited by
him yesterday morning. By bad luck—Inskipp
called it his stupidity and carelessness—he had not
mentioned the address where lived the Maitre
Francois, about whom hetwas inquiring. And there
was only one avocat of that name!
Inskipp set his teeth.
Mireille's divorce! No wonder it had dragged!
Inskipp sat a long time in that writing-room. He
finally decided that as soon as possible to-morrow,
Monday morning, he would put through a long-
distance call to the Maitre Francois who had written
to him, explain how things were, and take his
advice. Inskipp was quite sure that the famous
avocat would take energetic steps to sift the matter.
And it needed sifting.
That decided, he got up and made for his room.
Inskipp had been on the Stock Exchange, and had
been in his own way something of a speculator. He
had learnt then to do what Napoleon once described
himself as doing—that was, to shut in the drawers
of his mind, closing within them anything that
worried him. He now resolutely closed in the
drawer which held the name of Francois of Clermont-
Ferrand, and began to tidy himself up for dinner.
He was helped by the*fact that the affair was too
bad—too inexplicable—to tempt him to think it
over. The many letters exchanged between himself
and the other—their importance—the slum of a
street—the gorgeous office—he closed that drawer
with a bang and turned his mind to more ordinary
affairs—affairs which could be understood.
The four men had not arranged to meet at break-
fast on Monday morning, and when Norbury looked


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89
on to tell of his interview this morning with the
Film King as he called him, and of the latter's
total lack of interest in Haroun. "But," he went
on excitedly, " he was awfully struck with what I
chanced to tell him of the Red Caves. He saw at
once that a film of paleolithic life in them—as I
outlined it—might be worked up into something
really good. And after a bit—just at the end—
what do you suppose he did?"
"What ?" Norbury asked obligingly.
"Asked whether I would take it on. Write a
scenario—a talking one, of course—called the Baoussi
Roussd, and before you could say Jack Robinson he
had one of his secretaries in, and we drew up and
signed an agreement. How's that for a morning's
work, eh?"
"And what about Inskipp—where's he in it?"
"Nowhere," replied Rackstraw with brevity.
"Haroun is an absolute washout. I knew it, of
course, but I'm a good-natured bloke. I didn't
want to dash Inskipp's hopes. But he's going to
London. He's there by now—like Blythe. He won't
give the matter a second thought. Nothing like
Town to get one out of a rut, eh? But as soon as
I've sent off his things—I'll telephone to Carter
Paterson to call for his suitcase—I'll see about a
ticket back to the farm."
Rackstraw went on to say that he should stay
at the Chevre d'Or until he finished his new scenario
—a matter of three months, possibly.
Norbury suggested their both returning together,
as he would not be long in town, but Rackstraw
that he wanted to leave at once—to-night. He was
itching to set to work, he said.
He charged Norbury when in town to see Inskipp
and explain what had happened about the film, but


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91
easily, that, after some shopping, he crossed in the
next day's Folkestone-Boulogne boat.
Mrs. Norbury was down at the farm gates to greet
her husband. " Miss Blythe has gone into the hills
for a week-end. She has kept on her room, of
course, and told me not to worry, however long
she might stay away. I had no idea you would be
back so swiftly. It hardly seems worth while to
have gone."
"Nothing like a personal inspection," said
Norbury to that. "It was well worth the journey
to have a clear idea of the man at the other end.
I want to plant some more greffes, and some new
peaches, and put down some more strawberry beds."
They went into the details together. Mrs. Norbury
was not very delighted. All this meant heavy
expenses, and that meant worry to her careful
nature, which her husband called stingy when he
was angry, though as a rule he valued that trait
more than some others of hers.


CHAPTER X
A DEAD TRAMP IS CLAIMED BY TWO WOMEN
Chief Inspector Pointer was wanted in the
office of the Assistant Commissioner of New Scotland
Yard. Pointer was a tall, spare, bronzed man, with
a grave but pleasant face, about which the only
noticeable thing were the eyes. Their glance,
inscrutable though it was, suggested power and
personality.
"Solomon had to decide between a baby and
two women who claimed it, didn't he?" was the
unexpected beginning of his chief. "Well, when
you take these papers down to Dover, Pointer,
I want you to settle between two women who
each claims a dead body as that of her hus-
band."
Pointer waited.
"One woman is a local charwoman, the other
lives in Canada, but belongs by birth to a fairly
well-known Kentish family. You're to decide who
is to have the honour of burying a tramp."
Still Pointer waited.
"A tramp found dead in a shelter on the cliffs
last Monday morning. Day before yesterday.
Found murdered, I should say, or manslaughtered.
First sandbagged, then finished off with something
harder, early on Sunday night, says the doctor.
Drunken brawl between two down-and-outs, is the
local police theory, and, of course, that's all there
was to it. So when Mrs. Simpkins, a charwoman,
claimed the body early this morning as that of her
92


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93
husband, there was no objection. It never rains but
it pours however—as we know here to our cost—
and within half an hour, a Mrs. Harding claimed
him as her husband, an artist, who had left her
some two years ago in Toronto."
"And where do we come in ?" asked Pointer.
** Ah!" the A.C. grunted. "Just so! Where?
Damned cheek: that's unofficial, but true, none
the less. The Dover Chief Constable is, as you may
know, very keen on all murder cases being investi-
gated by the Yard. His men don't like it. You know
that, too, probably. He's down with 'flu at the
moment, and they're getting their own back—in a
quite correct way, of course—by foisting this dead
tramp on to us. I suppose that technically it is a
murder case. But in reality, of course, there's no
finding out who slogged who. Privately, as I say,
I like their cheek in calling us in on such a
case. I should send down a junior, but that you
happen to be going with those documents for Sir
Arnold."
Sir Arnold Porteous was the Lord Warden, and
the papers in question were from the Home Secretary,
and very important.
"Find out before you return which lady
has the right to the body. It's all there is to
do."
Down at Dover the men at the police station were
surprised to see Pointer, who went there immediately
after a brief interview with Sir Arnold's private
secretary.
"Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!" said Superintendent
Grayson as he shook hands warmly. "Is the tramp
a Balkan monarch in disguise? Otherwise, why
the compliment of sending you down here to
us?"


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Pointer explained about the important papers in
his charge which he had just handed over at the
Castle.
"Solved the puzzle yet of whose husband the
tramp was ?" he asked.
"No, we still don't know who he really is, whether
Simpkins or Harding. Off-hand, I should say
Simpkins, but that an artist can get down on his
uppers as well as a man on the dole. His clothes
are at the mortuary. If you can call them clothes.
He must have spent his nights in the ditches, by
the look of them."
Grayson had a guilty air which suggested that
the reply to his request for the Yard's assistance
had been a bit more than he had bargained for.
Evidently the A.C. had been right in his guess at
the motive behind it.
"Who found the body?" Pointer asked.
"One of the regular cleaners. It was lying inside
the shelter."
"Any signs of a struggle?" Pointer asked.
"None whatever. It was a case clearly of just a
couple of nasty blows—one with a sandbag, one
with something a deal harder. No weapon has been
found, but there was a little pile of sand in the
corner by the entrance, which was just enough to
fill a sock comfortably. Sand from the seashore
just below. It's all quite simple, bar the man's
name." Grayson looked apologetically at the other
as they stepped inside a small building. He led
the way inside to a slab on which lay a body covered
with a sheet.
Pointer looked keenly at it when the sheet was
lifted. He saw a young man who looked about
thirty years old, with a clean-shaven face which
wore a look of deep content. It was the face of


96
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after sending a message, had the clothes made up
into a bundle. By the time that this was done
under his eye, the policeman for whom he had
telephoned appeared and took charge of them.
Back at the station, Pointer had the report of the
cleaner who had found the body brought to him.
There was also some flashlight photographs of the
shed with the body in it. They showed a wooden
bench placed diagonally across one of the back
corners. The body lay close by. Another photo-
graph showed the small pile of sand.
As the man's belt was missing, and he had no
suspenders, the police inclined to the belief that he
had carried his money in it, and that the fight had
been the result of a quarrel for it.
Pointer handed back the report and photographs
and stood a moment thinking. The sunburn on
the dead man showed that he had been in the
habit of wearing a hat. Where was it? Had it
been suspected of also possibly holding whatever
it was for which the man had been killed?
But it was the sunburn itself about which Pointer
was thinking. There was nothing weather-beaten
about the face or the hands. And the hair had the
soft feeling which is only the result of care.
The superintendent came in. "Mrs. Simpkins is
waiting, and Mrs. Harding has just arrived. By the
way, do you really want us to keep those unspeakable
garments here in the safe?"
Pointer said that he did.
The superintendent sighed. "Would that we
could have them disinfected first. I suppose we
mustn't boil them?"
Pointer only shook his head. "They don't need
it," he assured the other. "They're as dry and
free from vermin as though they had just come out


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97
of an oven. In fact, they rather suggest that he has
lived in one for months. I told your man to handle
them as if they were glass."
"Pretty tattered," agreed Grayson, " and possibly
not helped by a tussle at the end."
"He couldn't have been very violent in those
clothes," said Pointer, " or they would have fallen
in snippets around his feet."
Pointer did not think that the police had grasped
that the garments were really extraordinarily
brittle.
Grayson looked puzzled. "No oast houses
around us. Nor do the clothes smell of hops. And
that would be last autumn"
Pointer did not think that the clothes, any more
than the hands, were those of a man who had
worked in an oast house. He said as much.
"Those white shoes," he continued, "they have
never been out in the rain, yet it rained all Sunday
evening."
Grayson nodded. "Agreed. Very stormy evening
and night down here. We think he was given a lift
by some carman or delivery man who gave him
the shoes—as being too small for himself. Or he
stole them from outside a shoe shop and put them
on inside the shelter, giving whatever he was
wearing to whoever was with him—whoever killed
him. Any particular line you'd like us to follow
up?"
"Yes, I wish your men would search very care-
fully for a man's umbrella, good make and condition,
flung down on the sands, or into the sea, on Sunday
night. It won't have been flung far, and the tide
was coming in at half-past nine—the hour at which
the doctor thinks the man was killed. I would like
you to offer a reward of one pound for such an


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99
"You mean manslaughter. Tramps often carry
a sandbag as other people carry walking-sticks.
But let's get it clear. This isn't the Yard, remember,
with your lightning minds. We're yokels—plod-
ders "Grayson had a great liking for the chief
inspector. "Now, to go back, and this time in
words of one syllable—Mrs. Simpkins lost fifty
pounds. See ' First Statement.' Explain, please."
"She had insured her husband for that amount,
and, being probably more than usually hard up—I
should guess her to be an improvident, cheerful
soul—I think that she saw her way to securing it
when she read the description outside on your
hoarding of the tramp found dead."
"Does she take back her claim to the body?"
"Absolutely. When I showed her it was im-
possible," was Pointer's reply, " for that dead man
to have ever worked in a quarry. Her husband was
a quarryman."
"Then what about Mrs. Harding's lost husband?
'Lost where and how?' See ' Second Statement.'
Explain, please."
"I think she wanted to marry again in a hurry
—and could only do so, naturally, by showing
that she was a widow. For which purpose any
corpse would do, which could be buried under the
name of Harding. I fancy she, too, must have read
the description on the hoarding."
"She did. I happened to be coming into the
station and saw her. She had been strolling along,
very much the tourist—the stranger—looking about,
when she stopped and read the account. She stopped
so long that I was quite prepared to see her come
in, but she went off then—to think it over, appar-
ently—and came back about an hour later to
claim the body. And, but for the chance that there


100
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were two of them after it, either of them could have
secured it. There doesn't seem much to go for in
the body of a dead tramp. One doesn't expect
competition in that line. So her motive for claiming
the tramp as her late husband—let alone for making
him late—so to speak, is just to be able to remarry!"
Pointer did not think that Mrs. Harding had
anything to do with the murder. He believed that
she had come on the scene merely for the reason
which he had given to the superintendent—namely,
a chance to become a widow whose bereaved status
would stand inquiry. For the rest, he believed her
to be genuinely indifferent to what had happened to
the tramp, and at the last only concerned with not
being dragged into unpleasant notoriety in the
papers, once he had told her that he believed the
tramp to have been murdered. It was then that
she had remembered a large mark on her husband's
knee.
"Whatever he was in the past—whether Harding
was his name or not—those clothes mean that he
had become a tramp all right at the end," protested
Grayson.
"That man was no tramp, Grayson."
Grayson was sitting very grave and attentive now.
"You think that—do you? Humph. From
what? Refined expression on his face, about which
Doctor Harris held forth to us?"
Pointer detailed the care of the teeth, of the whole
body. "Why, Grayson, if you had run your hand
over the hair, you'd have known that that man
wasn't a tramp. He has well-groomed hair, and
has always worn a hat—a hat with a brim. No,
I don't think this is just a case of a slogged tramp.
I think we have a cunning crime to deal with—and
bring home to the murderer."


SCARECROW
IOI
If so, Grayson was shocked as he thought by how
narrow a margin the crime had escaped detection
as such.
"Something took the dead man—as I'll call him
—to that shelter on Sunday night," Pointer went
on. "You found out that a couple of young people
left it empty at seven. It's possible that Y, the
murderer, had given X an appointment there. If
X went there on an appointment, the fact of a
shelter having been chosen suggests a rendezvous.
Off-hand, one would guess that the shelter was near
where X lived and not near Y's home. It was a
beastly evening and night, and living as soft a life
as I think X did, he wouldn't be likely to be willing
to go far afield in such weather."
"You can't get near those shelters in a car,
whereas farther out on the cliffs towards Folkestone
are several to which you can almost drive up,"
threw in Grayson.
"That looks as though X hadn't a car. His
hands, too, suggest that he is no driver. But his
shoes may have been taken away to prevent the
marks on the heel suggesting that. As for the
murderer, he would be able to bring the clothes
found on the body and take away the ones that X
was really wearing in a small suitcase—or in a
paper parcel. In which case they were probably
sent off at once to some out-of-the-way corner. I
don't suppose he was foolish enough to do it, but
you might send round an inquiry to any post office
open on Sunday night, and ask if any large
brown paper parcel was sent off then. Next day,
of course, it would be hopeless to trace such a
thing."
"X—the murdered man—isn't a local man," said
Grayson, coming out of a profound cogitation.


io4
SCARECROW
ently counted on that. A match to light a pipe
or a cigarette would hardly have been sufficient—
unless the murderer was an expert slogger. It
looks as though X, the murdered man, had been
asked to bring a torch along—and turn it on as he
sat on the bench, possibly under the plea of identify-
ing him by it." And with that Pointer rose.
"And now what?"
"Routine work. The face is not an ordinary
type. I may be able to get it identified."


CHAPTER XI
A NAME IS FOUND FOR THE TRAMP
Photographs of the murdered man had been
distributed to the press for dissemination. Pointer,
armed with two of the clearest—full face and profile
—went the round of the hotels, boarding-houses and
inns of Dover town and harbour. A plain-clothes
man would question the keepers of apartment
houses and smaller lodging places, but Pointer was
backing his belief that the dead man was used to
the good things of life. All this really was what he
had called routine work. At the first hotel he drew
a total blank, but at the second, the Lord Bishop,
the hall porter rather thought he recognised the
photograph as that of a young man who had quite
recently claimed a letter that had just arrived—a
registered letter. The hall porter even remembered
that it had come by air from France. He looked
through his book. Unfortunately there were several
such letters, and he could not be certain of the
name or the day—except that it had been some
time this last week-end. Saturday, Sunday or
Monday. The hall porter could not be more precise,
nor more certain. Pointer passed on to the cashier's
desk. The chances were even that the dead man had
settled his bill on Sunday. Three men had done that
and left Sunday afternoon. "Now of the others,"
Pointer continued, " was there one who didn't settle
his own bill, but had it settled for him—on Monday,
probably, and I should expect early Monday
morning."
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The cashier had only come on duty at noon on
Monday last, but a gentleman had settled then for a
friend. That much the man remembered with
certainty, but not the name either of settler or of
the bill settled. Pointer looked through the names
of those whose accounts had been settled early on
Monday and made a note of the names. Then he
started the questioning of the housemaids and floor
waiters—without success. But one of the Boots,
when shown the portraits by Pointer among several
others, said that that chap—he laid a finger on the
portrait of the dead X—had borrowed his pocket
torch last Sunday evening around seven. In reply
to Pointer's hope that he had got it back all right,
he had not. But as it was a sixpenny one, and as
the gentleman in question had " made it all right"
with him, he had no cause to complain. The borrower
of his torch had come from one of the rooms opening
off a side corridor on the third floor where on Sunday
he was mending the electric light switches at the
time—from ten past seven on to around half-past—
an emergency repair. It was because he all but
collided with him that the young man had stopped,
asked if he was the Boots for that floor, and on his
saying that he was, had wondered if he could let
him have the loan of a pocket torch, as his own
needed a fresh battery. The Boots had one in his
kit at the time, and it had promptly changed hands.
"Did he take it on down with him?" Pointer
asked.
The Boots thought not. "He stepped back along
the corridor, and apparently put it away some-
where." The Boots was working with his back to
that end, but he had later heard him tap on a door
somewhere down there and call out to some one
that he was off downstairs to dinner. A moment


SCARECROW
later the borrower of the torch had passed him
and taken the lift. He had not seen him again.
That last time was about half-past seven.
"Had that torch any initials scratched on it?"
"It had something better," laughed the Boots.
"I had lost the bottom off it, but I found a peroxide
bottle's screw top what fitted just as well, and
used it. Inside the cap is stamped the word peroxide
very small. You can't see it from the outside,
but it's there."
Pointer got the numbers of the twelve rooms,
from one of which the Boots was certain that X
had come. There were only bedrooms and suites
in that part.
"He might just have come from and gone back
to a friend's room."
"Must have been a very silent bloke," said the
Boots. "I had been working some five minutes on
that switch, and no sound of talking to be heard."
The Boots was not able to describe the clothes the
borrower of the torch had worn. They had been
quite unremarkable, he said.
The register showed that five of the twelve rooms
on his list were double rooms—all, as it happened,
occupied by couples who were still in the hotel.
That left Pointer seven single rooms. Three of these
were still occupied by the guests who had been in
them on Saturday last. That left only four. The
names of their occupiers on Saturday had been a
Miss Jackson, a Mr. Blythe, a Mr. Inskipp, and a
Mr. Holme-Kennedy. The room numbers of the
last three ran consecutively. And, as it happened,
the name of Blythe came next but one on the
register to that of Inskipp. Blythe—Rackstraw—
Inskipp—Norbury, all from Paris, preceded and
followed by names from London, and some distance


108 'SCARECROW
down came the name of Holme-Kennedy—again
from Paris.
The home addresses of Blythe and Inskipp were
very sketchy. Pointer had himself put through at
once to the Worcester police. Holme-Kennedy's
address sounded like a largish place. The police
knew the name at once. Mr. Holme-Kennedy was
an elderly gentleman much interested in ornithology.
Very wealthy. Very much liked. Yes, he was back
at Lampton Park since yesterday. According to the
local papers, he had been over to Italy to see the
San Michele Bird Sanctuary. The superintendent
speaking had, by chance, seen him walking past
just half an hour ago. Pointer hung up. Holme-
Kennedy might be Y, the murderer, but he certainly
was not X, the dead man.
The hotel detective came up at this juncture and
offered his services.
Pointer was quite frank with him, though with
him alone. It looked as though the man found
murdered in a shelter on the cliffs might be a man
by name Blythe or Inskipp who had had room 313
or 314 here in the hotel last Sunday evening. Had
there been any suspicious characters about? The
hotel is not one which accepts criminals within its
doors, but in every place of that kind it is impossible
to keep out wolves if the sheep's hides fit well. The
detective, an ex-Scotland Yard man, thought that he
could give the hotel a very clear bill of health all this
last week, and, with that, his usefulness to Pointer
was over. He might, however, yet hear of some
talk or fact which would link up with the crime,
and if so would at once let the chief inspector know.
That arranged, Pointer went on now to No. 313—
Inskipp's room. It was empty at the moment,
though it had been occupied each night since Mr.


SCARECROW log
Inskjpp had had it. If he had even had one night
at the hotel, and if he really were the murdered
man—Pointer had not much hope of coming
on anything useful. On the other hand, he had
before now found surprising evidence which had
been lying unnoticed for longer than the couple of
days which separated to-day, Wednesday, from
last Sunday night.
One careful look about the room, and he knew
that if anything was to be found here it would have
to be in the drawers. They all seemed empty, but
he took each lining paper out in turn, and in one of
the small top drawers of the chest he found that
what looked like lining paper was in reality a water-
colour drawing, folded inside a piece of white paper
which had been taken from one of the longer drawers.
The sketch was signed J. Inskipp. On the back was
pencilled: "For Mireille." The drawing repre-
sented a couple of lemon trees growing beside
a blue-painted door with a glimpse of maize fields
to one side, and with a mimosa in the middle
distance. It was an attractive piece of work, though
entirely photographic. An artist would never have
allowed that mimosa to stay where it was. It broke
up the lines in a most unfortunate way. But the
painter had managed to get into it some of his own
sunny mood. It was gay—and it was curiously
young. And the colours were charming in their
unaffected purity. It had been done in the full
summer time—August, one would guess from the
darkness of the foliage and grass. As a picture
it had no merit, but as an indication of where
Inskipp had been, it might be most useful; though
there were very many places where those lemons
and that mimosa could have grown. South Africa
certainly was one of them. And then Pointer


no
SCARECROW
stiffened. There, in a field of maize almost off
the picture, was a scarecrow—complete with dang-
ling sleeves, striped trousers and straw hat. Bar the
latter, it might have been a painting of the garments
in which Inskipp's body had been found. The very
cut of the frock coat with its accentuated waist was
the same.
Pointer slipped the sketch back into its wrapping
again and put it away in his case. He rang for the
Boots. But the man could not remember whether
No. 313 had put out his shoes or not. Pointer
knew that last Sunday had been extremely wet.
It was most unlikely that any man would not have
changed wet shoes for dry ones. He was told that
they would have been placed, cleaned, outside the
door by seven-thirty Monday morning. That meant,
Pointer thought, a possible shock to the murderer.
He might have caught sight of them in the morning,
known that if they were allowed to stay on they
might cause comment. . . . They were not hidden
in the room anywhere. They would be dangerous
to take outside the room. Pointer went to the hall
window. It was topped with wooden gable painted
white. Pointer got out and stood on the ledge.
Leaning far out in a curve, he saw a parcel
wrapped in white paper lying on one of the wooden,
sloping sides, and another, similar, white parcel on
the other. They had been wedged against the wall.
Getting inside again, Pointer tried the distance.
Any man of average height and arm-reach could
have put them there. He picked them from their
positions as carefully as though they had been
peaches—and with gloves on. As he hoped, each
parcel held a shoe. The shoes were of brown leather,
and were marked with chalk on the soles: 313. He
had with him all the measurements, and an outline


SCARECROW
III
of the feet of the dead man, on the off-chance that
the presumed tramp might have left some clothes
behind him somewhere.
He now stood the shoes on the outlines. They
would have fitted perfectly, and when casts were
taken of the feet, as would be done at once, they
could be shown to have been the dead man's. Here
was a definite link.
The shoes themselves told little. They were
Bally shoes, bought somewhere abroad, by the
number. They had not been mended, so there was
no hope of getting at some new fact by that means,
and there were no fingerprints on the wrapping
paper. But they helped to establish that the dead
man had had room 313 at the Lord Bishop—and
was therefore called Inskipp. Pointer went carefully
through the rooms of Blythe and Holme-Kennedy.
He found that one of the brass knobs on the bedstead
in Blythe's suite had only been dropped on to the
upright, not screwed on. It was too large for it.
Inquiry by the hotel detective showed that this was
quite a recent defect. Further inquiries by him
proved that the over-large knob in question had come
from a room on the fourth floor, where one of the beds
was minus this ornament. The bedroom in question
had been empty over the week-end. Meanwhile
Pointer turned his attention to the accounts, and
then followed another of those close hunts for
apparent trifles that must form part of all but the
most exceptional police cases. There was no wine
charged to Inskipp's account. But two bottles of
Batard Montrachet, 1932, were put down to Blythe,
who had yet only had one dinner and no lunch at
the hotel. It was from the wine-waiter whom
Pointer promptly interviewed next that he got his
best and his most unexpected help.


112
SCARECROW
The name of the wine stirred the man's very good
memory. It had been ordered by a party of four
men, he said. Yes, one of them had been undoubt-
edly the dead man whose picture was shown him.
He remembered the four men particularly because
of the discussion they had had with him about wine
in general. One had wanted Chateauneuf du Pape,
and though the others had prevailed at the moment,
he had had a bottle of it next day for lunch. One
of the four—an older man—owned vineyards of his
own, for the one who had wanted the Chateauneuf
du Pape said, "This gentleman is a wine grower,
so be careful what you set before us." They were
all four English—or rather British. The waiter
thought that in age they were around thirty,
except the wine grower—from South Africa, pro-
bably, as he was so tanned—who appeared to be
about forty to forty-five years old.
A wine grower! South Africa! Pointer thought
of his idea that the rags in which the dead man had
been found had come from a scarecrow which had
stood out in some very hot, dry place. . . .
The wine-waiter thought that all four men had
been on very good terms with each other.
A scrutiny of the bills made out showed that the
name of the only man who had had a Chateauneuf
du Pape with his lunch on Monday was Henry
Rackstraw. So the man who had registered next
to Inskipp had also come from Paris. Henry
Rackstraw had left Monday afternoon. And Rack-
straw had ordered a whole bottle of Chateauneuf.
. . . Pointer asked the wine-waiter whether one of
the four men of the Sunday evening dinner had
not also lunched with Mr. Rackstraw the next day,
and shared the bottle of Chateauneuf.
The wine-waiter was vexed with himself that he


ii4
SCARECROW
though it might have been done with the knob
from No. 312." Pointer ran over the facts.
"The sand from the bag was emptied out on the
floor of the shelter," he continued. "It was thought
that the murderer did that to save carrying a
sandbag home. But it looks now as though he had
emptied it, dropped in the knob, given it a twist,
and brought it down with all his force on the man's
head. The injuries fit the notion. Incidentally,
Smith, the housemaid, will find herself still a knob
short in that suite. I borrowed one of the three
remaining originals and have it with me. You'd
better make her think that there's a collector here
in the hotel who has a mania for these things, but
that fortunately you have your eyes on him. Now,
I want to find out whether any price lists or cata-
logues of farm implements—any things which might
interest a farmer—were taken out of room 477."
This was the room of the man who had signed
himself Norbury.
The detective soon had the maid for that room
fetched. And they learnt that she had on Monday
cleared out a quite unusual amount of printed
matter—catalogues, price lists, advertisements from
the room in question. All to do with agricultural
implements big and small. Pointer would have
dearly liked to have one of those thrown-out
folders or price lists, so as to get into touch with the
firms in question, but the hotel detective hurried
down to the cellar, only to learn that all Monday's
waste paper had been used up Tuesday morning in
the boilers.
Meanwhile Pointer sent word to the police station
to have plain-clothes men look along the sands
for a brass knob off a bedstead, and for trousers,
coat, waistcoat, shirt, socks and hat. He could not


n6
SCARECROW
"This is Mrs. Thompson of Norburn Cottage
speaking. So you're interested in tortoiseshell cats,
Mr. Inskipp?"
Pointer was not often surprised. But he was now.
Were the words a password? He must chance that.
"Very much," he said promptly.
"So am I, and I've some beauties. But first of all,
thank you for your letter. I've only just returned
to the Cottage and got it. Now, if you'll make an
appointment for any day this week, I will send for
a couple of good ones I've just taken to a farm
near by."
"I must explain that I'm only speaking for
Mr. Inskipp," said Pointer then. "I'm sorry to say
he has met with an accident and can't come to the
telephone himself. Could you explain a little more?"
"I have had a letter from a Mr. Inskipp giving
as an address the Lord Bishop at Dover. He asked
for an immediate reply to his request to be allowed
to come and see my tortoiseshell cats. I live in
Cirencester, and was away till to-day noon, and as I
hadn't been able to write back at once, I thought
I would telephone him. You say he's met with an
accident?"
"Yes, a very bad one. I'm one of the hotel
managers," Pointer went on unblushingly, "and
we can't find out who his people are. Or his home
address. I hoped when you rang up that you might
be an old friend."
"No, I don't know him at all," came in a tone
which carried conviction.
"Would you be so very kind as to read me the
letter aloud which he wrote you?" Pointer asked.
"There might be some sentence—or word—which
would help us."
"There isn't. But I'll read it aloud with pleasure.


SCARECROW
II7
Just a minute!" and within a minute he heard,
"Are you there? This is what he writes. The
heading, a written one, is, The Lord Bishop Hotel,
Dover. It's dated last Sunday, and is postmarked
Dover, of the same date. He says:
"' Madam,
"' I have just seen a notice about your tortoise-
shell cats. May I come and see them, as I would
like to buy one? I should be much obliged by an
immediate reply to this, making as early an appoint-
ment as possible.
Pointer heard the crackle of the letter being laid
down. "There!" the voice went on, " I'm afraid
that's not much good, is it?"
"I'm afraid not, and it's addressed to you,
where?"
"At my home, Norburn Cottage."
"May I come and have a look at the writing?"
Pointer asked. "We can't be sure whether
some papers found are in his writing or not.
He signed his name in our books very illegibly.
By chance, I shall be close to you late this evening.
Will you hold the line just a moment ?" and Pointer
turned over an A B C. "I shall be dining in
Cirencester and could drop in for a moment around
seven-thirty. Would you excuse my coming in at
that hour? I shall only keep you a moment; just a
glance at the letter and its envelope. We really are
badly stumped."
"Come, by all means," said the voice indifferently,
"but I can post you his letter, you know"
"As I shall be so close to you it doesn't seem
Yours faithfully,
John Inskipp.
9 ff


n8
SCARECROW
worth while," said Pointer, and asked for directions
as to how to find the cottage. That done, Mrs.
Thompson hung up, leaving Pointer rather puzzled.
Some inner voice, which he never disregarded, had
told him to have a personal talk to this unknown
woman. But he assured himself ruefully that he
would have his journey for nothing. Inskipp might
have wanted to buy a tortoiseshell cat for himself, or
more likely as a gift. Surely his note could not be
connected with his brutal murder. . . . The voice
on the telephone was not the voice of a woman
likely to be linked with any crime gang.
Voices over the telephone tell character with
amazing exactitude. Nearly as much so as over the
microphone.
But the speed with which Inskipp had wanted
to get into touch with the lady of the cats—it might
be that he wanted to make a very immediate gift.
Pointer rang up the Cirencester police station and
sent a four-word query along, two words of which
were in code. The first word meant, " what can you
tell me about "—the next two were " Mrs. Thomp-
son "—and the last meant that the inquiry came
from a C.I.D. chief inspector of New Scotland Yard.
The reply came very quickly.
"Mrs. Thompson is a widow lady, sir. Looks
about fifty-five years old. Bought a workman's
cottage about a year ago and an acre of land beside
it. Goes in for cat-breeding and shows. Lives very
quietly. One maid. Nothing known here against
her. Address? Here it is, sir—Norburn Cottage,
High Road, Cirencester. That's all, sir."
It did not sound interesting.
Pointer hung up, and then asked to be put through
to Holme-Kennedy. In due course a very quiet,
elderly, precise voice asked him who was speaking


SCARECROW
119
at his end. Pointer said that an accident had
happened to a Mr. Inskipp, a man who had had a
room at the Lord Bishop last Saturday night next
to Mr. Holme-Kennedy's. Was he perhaps an
acquaintance of Mr. Holme-Kennedy's? They
wanted to get into touch with Inskipp's family, if he
had had any. He had had no address on him when
found.
Mr. Holme-Kennedy seemed very shocked at the
idea of a sudden end to any one, and said that all he
could say about the man in the room in question was
that he had been a model neighbour. He had never
seen him, much less spoken to him. Mr. Holme-
Kennedy was a very poor sleeper. On the night in
question he had not slept at all, and he had heard his
neighbour come in very late—around three—doing
his best not to disturb others, and move about in his
room with the same thoughtful care. A most
unusual trait nowadays. And he had had an
accident next day? How sad! Car accident?
Pointer was vague in his reply. He hung up,
and drafted an advertisement to be sent to all
the London and local papers stating that the
unknown man found dead in a shelter on the cliffs
at Dover on Monday morning was now believed
to be a John Inskipp, who had landed in Dover the
afternoon before, coming from Paris. Would any
one who had any knowledge of, or about, him,
kindly communicate at once with New Scotland
Yard, who wanted to get into touch with his
people.
He handed it to Grayson, and gave him a swift
account of his work—and its results.
"Well played !" said the superintendent warmly.
"It's a jump from a nameless tramp—who would
have been handed to one or other of those two


120
SCARECROW
frauds but for you—to Inskipp, a man with three
friends all coming from Paris together, with whom
he dined on Sunday evening. A man who can sketch
jolly well, who has been where lemons and mimosas
and—by jove, yes—scarecrows are. One of whose
friends is a wine grower—the friend probably who
furnished the scarecrow's garments—it's a splendid
jump!"


CHAPTER XII
A COTTAGE IS A MYSTERY
"Where are you off to now?" asked Superinten-
dent Grayson, as Pointer laid down the hotel and
boarding-house lists collected by his men for Sunday
last.
"In one of the smaller hotels quite close, a Miss
Florence Rackstraw is entered as having arrived
last Sunday from Paris. Her home address is
Capetown, S.A. It may be pure coincidence, the
name is not uncommon, but I'll go there now, and
ask for her."
He was told that Miss Florence Rackstraw had
left this morning (Wednesday) by the nine twenty-
three for Victoria. Pointer had called, he said, about
a book, a small paper pamphlet which Miss Rack-
straw had borrowed from a Mr. Inskipp who had
stopped at the Lord Bishop. Miss Rackstraw had
gone there first, hadn't she, and not been able to
get a room?
The manageress said that all she knew of the lady
in question was that she had taken a chill on Sunday
night and kept to her bed till she left this morning,
and that she had asked for the cheapest room in the
house. The manageress, who was very busy, and not
interested, once she learnt that neither Pointer nor
the young man with him were looking for rooms,
handed him over to an untidy housemaid, on his
suggestion that Miss Rackstraw might have left the
book behind her.
The maid took him to the top of the house
121


122
SCARECROW
and to a small room which had not yet been
tidied.
"We're short-handed—as we always are," she
half-whispered. "Here is her room. But she hasn't
left anything. Nice lady she was—and looked so
ill. And this morning when she crawled down the
stairs and paid her bill! She looked bad enough
when she came Sunday. She told me she went for a
walk in the evening thinking it would help her head
and that just did for her. Monday morning, I found
her lying on her bed in all her wet things. It was the
smell that made me look in here. Her felt hat had
caught fire when she put it down to dry "—the
maid pointed to the gas-fire,—" being felt and the
band being leather, my goodness, you can think how
it smelled! Burnt to a cinder. You can see where it
stained the radiators. But the lady was past caring
for hats or anything. I was frightened at the look
of her, but she wouldn't have a doctor."
"I wonder if it is the Miss Rackstraw I wanted to
see," said Pointer, as though half-thinking it was not.
"What was she like?"
"Wears her hair looped over her ears, sir. Dark
hair. Tall and nice looking. She looked round forty
to me, but you can't tell when people feel so badly,
can you—would that be the lady you wanted to
see?"
"Sounds rather like her. She has a cousin who is
a friend of mine. He was at the Lord Bishop. I
wonder why she didn't try to send him a message?"
"As near as that! How funny! I asked her when
I got her undressed, Monday morning, whether there
wasn't any one in Dover I could get for her, and she
said she was from South Africa and didn't know
any one here, and didn't want to worry her friends
in London. A cousin at the Lord Bishop!"


124
SCARECROW
except that it was English—a Fox-frame, and the
sort of umbrella that a man would buy who was
not wealthy, but who wanted something reasonable
and hard-wearing. The price, so Pointer learnt,
would be around fifteen shillings. The cover was a
stout " union."
The next thing was for the police to get out a notice
saying that the umbrella had been found and giving
its description. This one might yet turn out to have
been lost by a visitor. But there was no such
question about the brass knob. It was the mate to
the one which Pointer had abstracted from the
bedroom of the hotel. There were no fingerprints
on it. If any had been left, which Pointer doubted,
the wet sand would have seen to them. But it was
badly dented on one side, with just such a dent as
would be expected if the dead man had been killed
by its means. It was the first official find so far, and
as such was carefully labelled and locked away in the
station safe.
Then Pointer had to rush to catch the aeroplane
which he had ordered. He used the time till he
reached the pretty Gloucestershire market-town of
Cirencester in making notes which would be sent in
to headquarters.
At Cirencester, a taxi was waiting for him, and
Pointer reached the address given him over the
telephone by Mrs. Thompson well on time. There
was a lamp-post close to the gate. It lit up a narrow,
gravelled path leading to a door with a rustic
porch over it. It was seven-thirty when he rang the
bell.
His ring went unanswered for some moments,
though he could hear feet apparently running to
and fro inside. The sound suggested that the lady
of the house was absent, and that the servant was


SCARECROW
125
having a private caller of her own and was flustered
by the ring.
He rang again. This time the door was opened,
but in a furtive way, just wide enough to let a
woman in a servant's uniform peer out at him, and
peer with peculiar intentness. Beside her showed
the pink muzzle of a bulldog.
"My name is Pointer. Mrs. Thompson is expecting
me," said the chief inspector. The opening of the
door did not widen.
"She's out, sir."
The door was closed. Pointer rang again. There
was no reply, but he heard more of those light,
scurrying footsteps which sounded so frightened, and
so uncertain of what they were doing, where they
were going. Then absolute silence.
Pointer hesitated. The servant's voice had not
suggested guilty terror to his ear, and that is a note
which once heard can never be mistaken. He had no
reason to think that a crime had been committed
on which he was intruding. But he was uneasy.
One murder easily brings a second murder in its train.
He walked to the gate and was about to get back
into his taxi and apparently drive off, only to stop
when out of sight and sound, and return to Norburn
Cottage on his own silent feet. But a little car came
swiftly along, and pulled up. Out jumped a slender
woman with a mop of silver curls. She peered at the
taxi.
"Is it Mr. Pointer?" she asked in the same
pleasant voice that he had heard before, over the
telephone.
Pointer was beside her in a moment. Those
furtive movements inside the cottage had made him
glad to see her.
"If you'll go on to the house and ring, I shall be


126
SCARECROW
with you in a moment," she said cheerfully. "That's
the best of a cottage. Everything is within arm's
length—garage—gate—garden.''
Let me help you run her into the garage," he
said, pleasantly.
"Well—thanks. The door there is a bit heavy to
shove up," she said gratefully. It was but a step to
the garage shed, where he switched on the light,
helped her up with the shutter-door, and in with her
little car.
"You want the letter of that poor Mr. Inskipp.
By the way, I hope he's better ?" she said, watching
his swift, sure movements approvingly.
"No," said Pointer. "I'm sorry to say he's not.
There's no hope of that."
"How sad! Well, you can have his letter in a
moment. I left it out on the mantel for you"
she stepped towards the front door as she spoke.
"But I could have sent it to you, you know, and
saved you coming out. Like to have a look at my
pussies while you're here?"
He had expected Mrs. Thompson to be a good
business woman from her voice.
"With pleasure," he said instantly. "I was
going to ask you to let me have one. A kitten, if
possible. For a little niece of mine."
"Oh!" Mrs. Thompson stopped. "A child!
I hope she'll be good to it! Children aren't always,
though, of course, they mean well. I would much
rather sell you one for your little niece's mother,"
she smiled as she spoke. She was a pretty woman
still, and must have been a very pretty girl. And
Pointer liked her care to sell her cats only to good
homes. She evidently was more than just a business
woman. She had her key in the door now, and
turned it. The door did not open.


SCARECROW
127
"What's the matter?" she asked, perplexed—
and tried again.
At that, the door was opened by the same woman
who had peered at Pointer through the crack. She
now showed as a middle-aged woman whose face
bore the marks of tears. Very recent ones.
She fairly pulled her mistress across the threshold,
and tried to shut Pointer out in the same gesture.
"What on earth has happened, Miller? This way,
Mr. Pointer "Mrs. Thompson opened the door
of a room next to her hand. "The letter is on the
mantel. I won't be a moment. Now, Miller, what
is it?" The door was closed between Pointer and
the two women.
He was in a pretty little white-painted room with
chintz covers, old and faded, over still older chairs,
and chintz curtains closely drawn over the windows.
On the mantel was no letter whatever. The shelf
was still warm from a recent gas fire in the grate.
The light had been on when Mrs. Thompson had
opened the door for him to enter. He heard the two
women now move down the passage into another
room. But there was no sound of voices. Whatever
had upset the servant so curiously was being told
in a whisper. A moment later, and he heard foot-
steps go up the little stairs. Those of Mrs. Thompson,
he thought, and then his own room door was opened
by the maid.
"Mrs. Thompson says will you please excuse her,
sir, she has had bad news, and doesn't feel able to
see any one.
"Of course! I'm sorry to have come at such a
moment. But—er—I came for a letter which she
told me would be on the mantel here. Could you
find it for me? It's addressed to her by a man
who's met with an accident." Pointer was quite


128
SCARECROW
chatty, hoping to give her time to pull herself
together.
But Miller only looked like bursting into tears.
"I'm sure I don't know anything about any letter,
sir. Oh, will you please go! The mistress needs me.
And—and "she was holding the front door open
and motioning him out.
Pointer could not stay. There was real trouble here.
The woman's face was working, even as she tried to
keep her voice steady. He let her close the door
behind him and walked down the path, then turned
and came back to the little house. The letter which
he had come to fetch was gone. He thought that
it had been taken, and, if so, its loss was very
probably connected with the mysterious disturbance
in the little house. He had not been able to ask
Mrs. Thompson to take special care of the note.
He knocked once more, this time with a postman's
knock. The door was opened on the instant, and
Pointer stepped inside before the maid could close it.
"Sorry," he said as he did so, " my gloves, I left
them in there "He was back in the room in the
same instant. As Mrs. Thompson had said, every-
thing at the cottage was within an arm's reach. He
had left his gloves behind him on purpose. As he
moved to the door, Mrs. Thompson herself came
down the stairs. There was no sign of the dog.
"Miller, make some strong tea at once for us."
She saw Pointer and her whole face, a grey one,
stiffened. She drew herself up and stared at him
coldly—and suspiciously.
"I left my gloves in my hurried going," he said,
in answer to that look, " but I didn't find the letter
you said was on the mantel. I'm very sorry if I have
called for it at an inopportune moment—perhaps
you will let your maid bring it to me?"


SCARECROW
129
"I made a mistake about the letter," said
Mrs. Thompson. "It's been lost. I don't know
where it is. I will post it on to you if I find it. But
I'm afraid at the moment it's impossible to look for
it." She was desperately uneasy, terrified of some-
thing connected with the note which she had so
easily promised to hand over.
Pointer picked up his gloves and left—this time
really left. As he shut the garden gate behind him
he wondered what had so absolutely changed Mrs.
Thompson. She had now no intention of letting him
have that letter. Yet when they had been in the
garage, he was as sure that she really had left it out
on the mantel for him, and had no slightest objection
to his taking it away with him. Then who was in
the house? Who had rushed up there to get the
letter, or warn her not to hand it over—not to
admit the man who came for it? One of the gang,
as Pointer called the foursome of the Dover hotel?
But if it had been one of them, it was curious that
Mrs. Thompson had telephoned as she had done
earlier this afternoon, and left her cottage with the
note laid ready for him. If not one of the four—
there was Miss Florence Rackstraw who had been
out and got soaked, and then burnt a hat on Sunday
night. She had left Dover this morning. Could she
be in this? The order for "strong tea for us"
suggested another woman.
He made a careful but, because of the bull-
terrier, distant circuit of the cottage. There were
no lights in any of the bedroom windows. But
the kitchen, and the room back of the one into
which he had been shown, were brightly lit. It
looked to him as though some plan was on foot
which precluded not only sleep, but going to bed.
That looked as though some one there intended to


130 SCARECROW
leave the house secretly and before very long. For
if there were illness, a bedroom would have been in
use.
From the hedge where he sat down to watch,
Pointer could see the garage. He kept his eyes and
ears open as, wrapped in a mackintosh that he had
brought with him, he thought over the possible
meanings of the reactions which his coming to get
Inskipp's letter had caused. He had stepped into
some swirling tide of emotion, and had added to it.
Therefore was linked with it.
What could account for the emotion of the maid
and Mrs. Thompson's changed face? Both women
had had a shock of a kind that had frightened them.
The maid had shown it first. She was flustered. She
had lost her head. As for Mrs. Thompson, she clearly
must have learnt in those few minutes while he had
waited in the empty room and been shown out, that
she had been on the verge of making a dreadful
blunder.
Pointer was puzzled. Very puzzled. Apart from
any question of who had taken it, why should that
letter of Inskipp's be of sufficient importance to be
taken? It looked as though the question of his
writing, unimportant at the moment, might become
of capital importance later on. It was the only
specimen of his handwriting so far found—except for
the scribbled entry in the hotel register, and the two
pencilled words on the back of the sketch. A sketch
which had, Pointer believed, escaped the notice of
whoever it was who had taken Inskipp's things away.
But whether the letter had been taken to serve as
a pattern for a forgery to come, which, given the
peculiar circumstances of the finding of the body
seemed very possible, or to prevent the police, or
some one else, comparing a false with a genuine


SCARECROW
letter or piece of writing, it was too soon to
tell.
Or was it that the visitor of the gas fire and the
steps, was not to be linked, even for a moment,
however remotely, with Inskipp, because of some
share in his murder, as yet unsuspected?
It was about two o'clock in the morning, when
Pointer saw a light go up in the hall of the cottage,
stay on for a minute, and then be switched off. Then
he heard the front door gently undone. A moment
later a woman came down to the gate and tied it wide
open with some string. She did not see Pointer,
though she stood in the road a moment and looked
carefully up and down it. She was so bundled up
that her face could not be seen, but her gait was
that of the maid.
At half-bast two a car came along, driving as
though not sure of the way. It turned into the gate
and stopped! at the front door.
Pointer, his torch in his hand, ready to switch on,
was by this \ime lying full length along the foot of
the garden wall, and a very cold place he found it.
Out of the car jumped a big, young man. The door
was cautiously opened. He stood a moment on the
sill before stepping over it and Pointer had a good
view of his face.
The person who had opened the door was Mrs.
Thompson. In about fifteen minutes the door
opened again, out ran a slight woman whom Pointer
had not seen before. Getting into the car, she was
covered up with rugs by Mrs. Thompson, and by
the young man who had driven up. The maid went
on to the gate and stood outside it in the road,
looking up and down it. Finally, Mrs. Thompson
gave a last, lingering smooth to the rugs and stepped
back reluctantly, speaking in a whisper to the young


132
SCARECROW
man. He murmured something in an encouraging
tone, jumped into the driving seat, and was off in
reply to a wave of the hand from the maid. Mrs.
Thompson went down to the gate and stood with her
arm through the maid's, watching the car drive
away. She had done her work skilfully. At a glance,
it looked as though the only occupant of the car
was the young man driving it. The woman crouched
on the floor inside was completely hidden under
the rugs.
Pointer had no right to object. He did not follow
the car, because the cottage might not have finished
its activities yet. As he watched it, he turned over
the little scene of just now. His final idea was that
some one—a woman—had arrived unexpectedly,
and had told Mrs. Thompson not to let the letter
pass out of her hands, was apparently proving right.
What woman was connected with Inskipp so far?
"Mireille," and the mysterious Florence Rackstraw.
A young woman who bore a name linked with one of
the four men who interested Pointer, who had gone
for a walk late on Sunday evening, burnt a felt hat,
and left the Doverana this morning, or rather,
Pointer glanced at his watch—yesterday morning,
at an hour which would let her get to Mrs. Thompson's
cottage before he, Pointer, got there, but after Mrs.
Thompson had left. Mrs. Thompson over the tele-
phone had spoken of being out all day.
As Pointer sat watching and waiting, he speculated
on what could make this cottage the focus for
Inskipp and for Florence Rackstraw. Had they
planned to meet here, both under some pretext
connected with cats? Why? What interest had the
cottage for either or both of them?
Mrs. Thompson's manner to the woman whom
she was helping to hide showed deep affection.


SCARECROW
133
The young man, a big, burly figure who had driven
the young woman away, had seemed very friendly
with Mrs. Thompson, but he did not seem to know
the way to the cottage.
It was eleven o'clock before there were any signs
of life in the house. Then the gate opened and a
taxi drove in.
After a little wait, out came Mrs. Thompson,
carrying a big basket from which came frenzied,
indignant mewings to which the bull-terrier beside
her listened with evident contempt. To Pointer's
joy, the maid came out to get in beside her mistress,
with another equally vocal basket. The dog jumped
up beside the chauffeur and the taxi drove away.
Pointer felt that he was in luck. He whipped round
to the back, where, he found a choice of windows by
which to enter. He owed that dog a grudge, he felt,
as he undid a catch and stepped inside. But for
him, Pointer would have done this much earlier.
There were only two rooms and the kitchen on the
ground floor, and three little bedrooms above. The
kitchen told nothing. The room behind the one
where he had been last night, told nothing. He
passed on into the room where he had been shown
by Mrs. Thompson. As he glanced keenly around
him he noticed something that had not been there
last night. A small electric pocket torch was now
lying on front of some books on a shelf. He picked it
up and looked inside its cap—merely as a matter of
routine. Inside was stamped the word peroxide.
Pointer stood a full second with it in his hand. The
dead Inskipp—the Dover torch—a young woman
who had been in Dover that same night and left
the next morning—had he found this earlier, the
woman hidden under the rugs would not have been
allowed to be driven off. He put it carefully away,


134
SCARECROW
and continued his swift but careful search. He
found nothing more. Bar that torch the cottage
showed an absolutely innocent character. And
yet—Pointer acknowledged that it was only because
of that torch, and of the connection with Inskipp's
letter that he thought that the house was too bare
of personal notes. There were no photographs what-
ever in any room. There were no letters from any
old friends or relations that he could find. The
cottage might have been a cattery office as far as
things outside of business went, except for recent
invitations.
True, death might have been busy in Mrs.
Thompson's circle, and she might object to photo-
graphs, but she was very unusually friendless.
What was her position? He placed her definitely
on the plane of Major Pelham's womenkind. He
was chiefly interested in her, because of trying to
guess the reason which had made the visitor (whom
for the moment, at any rate, he called Florence
Rackstraw) go at once to that cottage and be
received as she must have been and be helped as
she certainly had been. Mrs. Thompson looked an
upright woman, if ever there was one. She had
bought cottage and land freehold unfortunately,
which would mean that probably no references
would have been asked for, though he would try
for them.
Pointer had not been able to see the woman's face
as she ran down the steps, wearing a big felt hat and
a cloak of the highwayman type, but something in
her run had given him an impression of youth. And
there had been a very maternal touch in the way
in which Mrs. Thompson had smoothed the rugs
over her. Certainly only relationship, or great
friendship, would account for the facts.


SCARECROW
135
He stepped in at the police station, and there
learnt that they had no knowledge whatever of the
lady beyond what had been given him, but the
sergeant too, he could see, agreed with his own
ideas as to the class to which Mrs. Thompson
belonged, in spite of her poverty.
From the station, Pointer telephoned to the
various ports and aerodromes. If she had not
already left the country, Florence Rackstraw was
to be detained until he could question her about
that electric torch. He learnt that a Miss Rackstraw
had left early this morning in an Air-France liner
for Marseilles. Her passport, he was told, had been
issued in Durban, South Africa, three years ago.
Durban. . . . Pointer thought of the tan on
Inskipp's face, of the sketch of a farm where grew
mimosas, and lemons and maize—of the remark
about Norbury being a wine-grower—and cabled
the Durban police for fullest particulars of a Henry
and Florence Rackstraw, the latter of whom had
obtained a passport in Durban three years ago, and
for any possible connection between them and any
one in Cirencester, especially a Mrs. Thompson.
As he hung up, Pointer felt that he indeed owed
the bulldog a grudge. But for him, the chief inspector
would have got into that cottage and found that most
incriminating torch earlier. As it was—Marseilles
is a good port from which to leave for South Africa;
he might get on her track again there. Whether
she had been alone, or accompanied by the big,
burly young man who had driven her off from the
cottage, he could not learn.
None of the names of the other users of passports
this morning interested him, though he had them
noted down. He left word at the station to have
the taxi driver questioned as to where he had taken


136
SCARECROW
Mrs. Thompson and her maid, though Pointer did
not think the answer would be of any importance.
The women had not left the cottage for any length
of time. A meat stew was simmering on the kitchen
fire, a milk pudding was standing ready for the oven,
some cat food was soaking.
As for the car that had driven Miss Rackstraw
away last night, that would be traced by the Yard's
special department for such work, and it was to the
Yard that he returned from the Cirencester police
station. His thoughts keeping time to the hum of
the propeller.


CHAPTER XIII
AN OLD CRIME THROWS ITS SHADOW ON THE NEW ONE
At his room in Scotland Yard Pointer found a note
to say that Major Pelham was waiting for him.
He went at once to the latter's room with a step that
suggested the gait of a wolf dog, silent, swift, and
springy. This was not the quiet, reserved detective
officer of the Dover Mortuary. This was a man
swift and sure and efficient—in other words, this
was Pointer on his job.
The A.C. listened closely to the condensed, yet
detailed, account of the events since Pointer had
first been shown the body of the supposed tramp.
"The curious thing is," Pointer wound up, " that
the passport-office can't trace any one of the name
of Blythe as having arrived in Dover last Sunday.
Rackstraw is there, so is Norbury, and next on the
list to Inskipp. But no Blythe. As for Florence
Rackstraw, she crossed by the same boat it seems,
but her name comes some distance down, as though
almost the last woman off the boat."
"That's odd !" said the major. "You think the
man Blythe is using a false name?"
"It looks like it, sir. One evidently known to the
other three men—instead of, or as well as his own."
"Four crooks ?" Pelham asked, lighting a cigar.
A sudden vision rose before Pointer of the face
of the dead Inskipp. There was nobility in that
face—a quality not often seen alive, or dead.
"I see no reason—as yet—to think so," he said
evasively. "As to the clothes found on the body, sir,
137


138
SCARECROW
Hendon reports that the dust collected and analysed
shows that it consists of fig seeds as well as
quantities of particles of the blossoms of lemons,
oranges, olives and mimosas. Further, that there
must have been many roses around, as well as some
carnations, much lavender, thyme and juniper.
The earth shown is chalky, with a good deal of rock—
sandy rock. There's quite a paragraph of geological
data as well which would fit many places.
"Durban among them ?" asked Pelham promptly.
"I wonder, sir!"
"Think not?"
"Well, not one specifically South African flower—
as we know them—is mentioned. Roses and carna-
tions are all right, but what of the Veldt daisies
and the many flowers which are found in masses in
South Africa and nowhere else. I think their
omission is odd. Incidentally, I had the recent
lists of arrivals from South Africa looked through,
and the report here says that not one of the names
in which I'm interested can be traced. That means
little, of course, the party may have made a longish
stop in Europe—France or Italy. That's where I
think of trying, sir, for that sketch was done on
French paper, so our paper analyst tells me. Of
course, any moment we may hear from some one
who knows one or other of the parties concerned.
But, first, I'm going to try to find out more about
Mrs. Thompson's background, if that's possible.
Meanwhile, I'll get Inspector Watts to look into the
Mireille trail. There's the well-known film of that
name, as well as the opera. It's just possible that
the sketch may have been intended for something
connected with either of them, or that, if meant
as a gift for a lady, she may be connected with
them."


SCARECROW
*39
Pointer was just leaving when the telephone rang
again, this time from his own room.
His clerk thought that the chief inspector might
like to know at once the contents of a cipher cable
which had just been received from the Durban
police and decoded. It ran:
"Frederick Rackstraw head master of private
boys' school here. Married a Miss Knightly of
Bournemouth, England. He died fifteen years ago.
Whole family very popular and highly respected.
He left three children, May, Henry and Florence.
Born thirty-seven, thirty-five, and thirty-two years
ago respectively. He left his widow an annuity of
three hundred a year, and directed that the school
was to be sold for the benefit of the children. It
fetched five thousand pounds. May married a
Rhodesian farmer. Has never been back since.
Henry got a scholarship to London University and
has never been home since. Florence became
librarian at town library here. Three years ago
mother and she joined son in Europe. Both had
highest of reputations locally. Last November
thirtieth, Mrs. Rackstraw sent some books from
Bulawayo to the library here as a gift, informing
them that Florence had just died in Europe as the
result of an accident while out climbing and that the
books had belonged to her. Letter has not been
kept by library authorities but authorship un-
questioned. Since then nothing has been heard of,
or from, any member of the family."
"What do you make of it. Pointer ?" asked the
major. "Beyond the obvious fact that, if the
information is correct, some one has been passing
herself off as a dead girl. But was it with, or without.


140
SCARECROW
the knowledge of Florence's brother and the three
other men at the Lord Bishop?"
"On the whole, sir, it looks as though they might
not be aware of it," Pointer said, " seeing that she
seems to have avoided the hotel in question very
carefully."
"Looks to me more than ever as though you had
got hold of a gang of crooks," said Pelham.
As Pointer made way for the next man who
wanted to see the assistant commissioner, his mind
was very busy.
So Florence Rackstraw as a real person was out,
or might be out, of the whole affair. . . . Unless her
name had been chosen for some special reason, it
suggested that the user of it could not obtain a
passport herself. The fact that she could use it,
threw some light as to her height, general age, and
looks. It also suggested that she was aware of
Florence Rackstraw's death. Beyond that, it only
opened up some very interesting speculations as to
why she could not use her own name, or get a
passport of her own.
And yet, she had gone straight to Mrs. Thompson
without, Pointer was certain, giving her any prelim-
inary warning! The lack of doing this—added to
the use of a false passport—suggested that she had
not dared to send a message. Not from any fear of
not being received. Which meant that such fear
must be lest others should hear of her visit. This
fitted in with the way in which she had left ...
hidden under rugs . . . driven off in the dark.
And he saw too that if that were so, it might explain
the taking of that letter to Inskipp, if it was all-
important that no attention be attracted to the
cottage. It all might, of course, merely be extreme
precautions to avoid an arrest for debt; but it


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on it. "She's one of us by the way, isn't she?
Connected with South Africa, I was told, I mean by
birth, or was it by her marriage?"
The secretary had no idea.
"Is Mrs. Thompson her own name?" asked
Pointer heavily. "I've heard it whispered that it's
just a trade name. If so, she might have bought
the goodwill of some already established cattery.
Which isn't what I want. I want"
The secretary broke in on Mr. Parnell's wants to
say that as far as he knew Mrs. Thompson was
Mrs. Thompson, not that that mattered as far as he
could see. "Anyway, she lives at Norburn Cottage,
Cirencester. They might be able to answer your
questions better there," he ended.
"Has she written on cats at all?" Pointer
inquired imperturbably. "I've more confidence in
people who write. And as I want the best possible
blood for the cattery which my daughter is thinking
of starting"
"You couldn't have a better strain than Mrs.
Thompson's," said the secretary, wondering how
he was going to get rid of the bore. "Look! Here's
a little par. on her in the last Looker-On "—he
showed him a picture of Mrs. Thompson and the
lines below. Pointer thanked the man, and, to his
relief, left at that, to buy a Looker-On and tear out
the page. From the date it would have been on sale
in Paris or Menton at the time that Inskipp was
travelling home, and so could easily have come
under his notice and, if so, might explain the refer-
ence in the note sent to Mrs. Thompson supposing
that Inskipp had wanted to get into touch with
that lady for some reason or other—whether con-
nected with cats, or with the strange visitor.
He drove to the office of the Looker-on, and there


SCARECROW
143
—still as a guileless Colonial—asked for the
assistant editor. He had seen a picture purporting
to be of a Mrs. Thompson, he said, " but why didn't
the article on her say anything about Durban?
Surely, in any paragraph dealing with Mrs. Thompson
there ought to be some word about Durban,
and her connection with Durban?"
He had been shown into the office of a very young
under-secretary, who happened to be feeling bored
with life. She looked at the photograph with
marked distaste.
"One can't put everything in, and whatever one
writes, people always complain that a lot ought to
have gone in instead."
"But it's not a good likeness now, is it!"
expostulated her visitor. "Can't you put another
one in, and give more details of her life next week?"
"Oh, no, I can't put in another one, not even if
she wins a prize at the coming show. Mrs.Thompson
was ever so upset about that one appearing. Yet I
took it myself, and I think it's very flattering. I
had to interview all the exhibitioners at the last
Cirencester show. I had thought she'd be so pleased
with the advertisement. I really put it in because I
wanted to help her."
"But why call her Mrs. Thompson?" Pointer
asked fretfully. "Why not give her other name?"
He was polishing his glasses, but he caught the look
that just flitted across her transparent face. It gave
him a thrill such as Miss Walker's glances rarely
roused in her fellow mortals. He was right! He had
correctly read that cottage empty of aU links with
the past. And here was one who might be able to
throw some light on that emptiness—if she were
handled carefully.
"She exhibits as Mrs. Thompson," she said


SCARECROW
evasively. "She is known as Mrs. Thompson.
You've a right to call yourself anything you like,
Mr. "she glanced at the card—" Mr. Parnell,
so long as it's not for purposes of doing something
wrong." She little thought how apposite was the
remark.
"But I think she makes a mistake," he said
judicially, " I mean, from a business point of view.
Much better use her own—her other"
"Oh, I agree with you!" interrupted the girl
warmly. "Especially as everybody would only be
sorry for her, and want to help her in her plucky
fight. I think husbands should be forced by law to
insure, don't you? My father was a second division
clerk in the War Office, and worked under Sir
Seabright. That's really why I want to help Lady
or rather Mrs. Thompson, as she calls herself—now.
I think it's cruel! To find yourself left a widow
with nothing but what you can sell your furniture
for—and then on top of it to lose your daughter
in that awful way. Most women would have gone
out of their minds!"
"But did you think Mrs. Whin-Browning guilty?"
Pointer asked, not a muscle of whose face told of the
feelings within him. As he heard the name of
Sir Seabright Thompson, the dead father of a
Mrs. Whin-Browning who was wanted—if alive—
for two murders.
"What else could one think?" The girl dropped
her voice—her eyes wide—" She wouldn't have
drowned herself—if she did—if she hadn't done it,
would she? Or run away—if she did run away. I
think Mrs. Thompson's a marvel, though, like you,
I think it would be a better advertisement to use
her title. After all, one's only the sorrier for her—
one admires her grit the more."


SCARECROW
145
"Does she know you know?" Pointer asked,
really idly this time.
"Oh, no! It's only because of father I recognised
her at once. He was taken in a presentation group
with Sir Seabright and Lady Thompson some
twenty years ago. He had a copy of the photo-
graph framed. It hangs in the dining-room at home
still. And so, when I saw her—I recognised her at
once, but I didn't know she knew Durban at all."
"Lady Thompson stayed there and very much
liked she was there, too," improvised Pointer. . . .
"Lucky you knew all about Mrs. Thompson. I
wouldn't have spoken of her real name if I hadn't
felt sure you knew all about who she is"
"And J wouldn't have breathed a word, if I
hadn't been sure you knew!" said the girl in all
sincerity.
"Well—I suppose the thing is to do as she wants,
and keep silent, eh?" So saying, Pointer picked up
hat, gloves and umbrella, and apologised for the
length of his visit. Then he stepped out into the
street. Even he had had a jolt. This was far beyond
anything that he had expected. This—the linking,
even indirectly, of the famous Whin-Browning case
with the murder in the Dover shelter on last Sunday
night.
Nor was it indirectly, if the visitor was, as he now
believed her to have been, Mrs. Thompson's daughter-
Edna Whin-Browning answered every query that
he had put to himself as he lay watching the cottage,
and the later question as to why a false passport
had been necessary, for though the Brighton
superintendent had expressed his certainty that
Mrs. Whin-Browning had been drowned while
bathing—he had got out a warrant just the same,
and if alive, if recognised, she could, and would be,


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SCARECROW
arrested at sight. The electric torch linked her
directly with the shelter where Inskipp had been
murdered, or with Inskipp himself at Dover, just
as her taking the letter suggested a previous
connection with the murdered man. But where had
that connection started? Had Inskipp got on the
track of Mrs. Whin-Browning? Was he killed to
prevent his giving information to the police? Or to
stop blackmail?
The letter to Mrs. Thompson now suggested that
Inskipp had not been certain who the latter was—
unless it was a genuine and most incredible coinci-
dence that it had been written just at that time
and sent to just that address. Mrs. Thompson had
not known his name—but her daughter had! Her
daughter who had taken the letter from the mantel-
shelf, and left in the room the torch that Inskipp
had borrowed from the Boots on the evening of his
murder, and who in doing so had looped a very
dreadful and a very strange loop.


CHAPTER XIV
THE CHIEF INSPECTOR RUNS OVER THE POSSIBLE
LINKS BETWEEN MRS. WHIN-BROWNING AND INSKIPP
Pointer went at once to the newspaper-room at
Hendon, and there he obtained copies of all the
portraits of the people linked even remotely with
the tragedy which had some twelve months ago
agitated England. There was no picture of young
Mrs. Whin-Browning's parents, but they were
absolutely out of even the widest picture of the
double tragedy at Brighton.
As to the Whin-Brownings, there had been only
her husband and his younger brother Hector and
some scattered cousins, besides May Whin-Browning,
the poisoned sister.
Pointer satisfied himself that there was no portrait
of any Whin-Browning which could by any chance
stand for Inskipp. But he asked for copies of all
the newspaper prints.
As it happened, Inspector Watts had dropped in
to the same room at Hendon to look through the
newspapers for any mention of a performance of
Mireille in England or any showing of the film lately.
Pointer explained what had brought him there.
"Drop Mireille for the moment. I want you to
fly down with me to Dover, and there take some
of these portraits of the men associated with the
Whin-Browning case to the Lord Bishop Hotel.
Find out if any of them can be recognised as any
of the three so-called friends of Inskipp who arrived
at the same time with Inskipp and dined with him.
147


148
SCARECROW
Here is the list of numbers which will tell you
who the portraits represent—should any be identi-
fied. I'll go on to the Doverana with these portraits
of Mrs. Whin-Browning."
They were driven to the police plane and were
soon deposited outside Dover, where they separated,
to meet later at the pier entrance.
Pointer walked to the Doverana and asked for a
room. The assistant manageress who showed him
around, had not seen him before, and he took the
second one whose door she opened.
He took it for a day. It was on the same floor as
Florence Rackstraw's room had been. He had been
recommended to come there by her, he said
unblushingly.
But to the chambermaid he held out the portraits
to which Christopher had objected.
"Between ourselves, Miss Rackstraw has run
away from her home. That's the truth of the matter.
Now her people want to get her back again—
without calling in the police, of course."
"Of course !" said the maid, " who would want
them poking round!"
"Now, is this the lady who left here early
yesterday morning? You know—Miss Rackstraw—
the one who let her hat catch fire?"
The maid studied the portraits carefully. Finally
she took one out and had another look at it.
"She didn't look like this when she came, nor
when she went away, sir. But it's the very spit of
her as she looked lying in bed. She looked quite
different when she went out. It's the way of wearing
her hair that does it. Besides^ she looks as though
she had light hair in these pictures, but it's quite
dark, really."
"They're only snapshots probably," said Pointer.


SCARECROW
149
"She looks just as ill here, though," said the maid,
handing back the photograph, " and, my goodness,
just as unhappy!"
The picture had been taken of Mrs. Whin-
Browning just before the adjournment of the inquest
on Saturday—just when she had begun to realise
the awful fate that lay before her.
Pointer went off to " see about his things."
But a telephone message reached the manageress
shortly afterwards, explaining that " Mr. Parnell"
had had to change his plans and would not be able
to take the room after all.
He turned from the instrument as Inspector
Watts tapped on the door of the kiosk. " One of the
three men at the hotel has been using a false name.
Which one do you think it is?"
"Blythe," Pointer said.
Watts stared at his superior and his distant
relation.
"We can't trace Blythe's passport—which looks
as though he were using a false name," Pointer
said.
The inspector made a sign of self-disgust at his
stupidity. "And can you also tell me, sir, who
Blythe is—since he isn't Blythe?"
"Hector Whin-Browning ?" was the query which
really did startle the other, who only looked a
question too surprised to be put into words.
"I had an unfair advantage there," Pointer
confessed. "I recognised his portrait when I saw
it in the papers at Hendon as that of the young
man who collected Mrs. Whin-Browning from her
mother's cottage. Were the men at the hotel certain
of him?"
V Absolutely. The head waiter, the wine waiter,
and the hall porter all three will swear to him. Here


i5o
SCARECROW
are their signatures on the backs, together with
their addresses. I explained that it was a case of
trying to collect a gaming debt. Hector Whin-
Browning! Amazing! I didn't know that Ambrose
Whin-Browning had a brother—was he mixed up
in the affair?"
"Ambrose only had one brother, this Hector,
who is some years younger than he. As far as is
known, Hector was away from England when the
two deaths happened. 'Oriental cruise' is what is
entered against his name in those papers that I
looked through this morning."
Pointer spent the time on the flight back to the
Yard in thinking over the facts as so far known,
which seemed to be interlinked, if not interwoven,
with the death of Inskipp in that shelter last Sunday
night. He was dividing them up into coherent
groups. It took accurate thinking to accomplish
even that much, to see all the possibilities of each
group, realise which of them negatived which, and
what other possibilities there were that might
negative any or all—partially or entirely. Once that
is done with any mass of detail, the facts—and the
theories arising out of them—become available.
Until that much is accomplished, the mind merely
turns them over and over, like a child with a pack
of cards, or runs here and there like a dog at a fair
in loops and circles.
Back at the Yard, Pointer had another interview
with the A.C. who listened in profound silence to
what the chief inspector had discovered. Then he
held out a message from the Passport Office, which
had been waiting for Pointer nearly half an hour.
It stated that Hector Whin-Browning had arrived
in Dover by last Sunday's boat, and had left by
the Thallassa aeroplane for Paris this morning at


152
SCARECROW
paid Inskipp's bill. Of Blythe as Hector Whin-
Browning there was much to say. Finally he came to
Norbury.
"We are told that he was referred to as a wine-
grower or farmer. In other words, a man who could
be connected with scarecrows. Inskipp's sketch
shows a scarecrow with just such garments on it as
were found on his dead body, and the analysed dust
of the garments confirms the idea that they may
actually have been taken off the identical scarecrow
which he painted in his sketch."
"Good God!" murmured Pelham.
"The fact of Inskipp having painted what looks
like part of a farm, suggests that he may have
been stopping there. And, if so, possibly the other
two men stayed there as well. The sketch shows
lemon orchards and a maize field, among other
things. Where these two things grow, grapes ought
to do well too. That suggests that the farm may
have been Norbury's."
"If so, the farm could easily be the link, the
outward link at any rate, between the four men who
came over from France last Saturday afternoon, if
not from farther afield," said Major Pelham slowly.
"They were linked together in another and far
more peculiar way as well, sir," Pointer reminded
him, "or rather interwoven. Blythe is Hector
Whin-Browning, brother-in-law of Edna Whin-
Browning, who is using the passport and name of a
dead sister of one of the other men—Rackstraw."
"Don't say dead, say ' probably murdered too.'"
"That may be, sir," agreed Pointer, " but keeping
to the murders we do know of, she must have had
some secure hiding-place all these months. What
about a farm—such a farm as Norbury's? And
since Hector used the name of Blythe to the three


154
SCARECROW
Then, too, she had got hold of that other woman's
passport, and so could have disappeared, one would
think. At any rate, she didn't slog Inskipp first
with a sandbag and then with the hotel knob.
That at least was definitely beyond her—or any
woman's strength."
"The knob would suggest the man who called
himself Blythe," said Pelham. "That putting
another knob on in its place in his suite"
"But the larger knob, sir, came from the floor
above his, from a room which Norbury and Rack-
straw would have had to pass on their way down
the stairs or to the lift." Pointer thought that even
the affair of the knob was not simple.
"It certainly does point, so far, to one of the three
men in the hotel as Inskipp's murderer. And, of
course, if Mrs. Whin-Browning was at the bottom
of it—and if her brother-in-law was her fellow-
criminal—he is clearly indicated as Inskipp's
murderer. But it was a curious murder. I mean
oddly planned," said Pointer, again in the tone of
a man talking half to himself. "Carefully planned,
and yet—and yet—a suggestion of the improvised
—the hurried—about it"
"She must have been in it to have burnt that hat
and taken that electric torch," said Pelham in a
questioning tone.
"There was a gale blowing that night from nine
till past eleven," said Pointer. "If the torch had
rolled into a corner, and the murderer had not seen
it and emptied his sand over it, it might be*—I don't
for a moment say it was so, but it might be—that
the gale blew the sand off it sufficiently for any one
who later stepped into the shelter to have seen its
shining end and picked it up to use it."
"But why should Mrs. Whin-Browning step into


SCARE CROW
155
that particular shelter on that particular night?"
"It's possible, sir—not likely, but possible—that
she knew nothing about the.murder, even so. But
that the same gale which blew the sand about blew
the hat about, too, and blew it out of the shelter
towards her as she walked on the cliff promenade
to recover after a bout of seasickness. Now, the
scarecrow in the sketch is wearing a very wide-
brimmed felt hat. Suppose that Mrs. Whin-Brown-
ing recognised the hat? Stepped in to see where it
had come from, saw the bright end of the torch
shining in the corner where the sand was emptied—
which, as it happens, is the only spot lit by one of the
promenade lamps—picked up the torch and used it—
to see Inskipp lying there murdered. I am supposing
that she knew him as well as the scarecrow's hat
from her stay at the farm," he added with a faint
smile. "Her actions afterwards are consistent
with innocence of his death. Given her position!
She could not let the police know. But it might
have been the shock of finding it which drove her
to make for Cirencester and her mother. I feel sure
that she had not given them any warning that she
was in England. Evidently Mrs. Thompson had no
idea of any link between Inskipp and her daughter,
even if it existed. It's possible, of course, as I first
thought, that Mrs. Whin-Browning took the letter
merely to prevent any inquiries about any dead
person drawing attention to the cottage to which
she had rushed for at least temporary shelter. But
Mrs. Thompson—to call her as she prefers to be
called—hasn't sent the letter on to the Yard yet,
I see. But now that her daughter has left—and
without any one knowing of her visit, as she would
think—she could do it safely, and, I think would
have done it unless there were another closer and


156
SCARECROW
more permanent link which she now—not before—
knows all about. I rather think the link is the
farm, which is still to be the daughter's refuge."
"Wherever it may be."
"It's where there are lemon groves—orange trees
—maize—figs in bloom—thyme—lavender blossoms
—roses and carnations," said Pointer.
"Sounds entrancing." Pelham looked at the cold
drizzle outside. "And, I still think, sounds like
South Africa. Cape Town has some marvellous
spots around it. But why on earth that woman
left it What necessity drove her?" Pelham's
cigar had actually gone out unnoticed.
"Money couldn't account for it, one would
think," said Pointer, eyeing his shoe-tips still more
closely. "In the first place, Hector Whin-Browning
is a rich man, and, apart from him, she could get
nothing by a personal appeal to bank or solicitor
which she couldn't get far more safely by writing.
Unless it was just some sudden impulse or home
sickness which the opportunity to get hold of
another woman's passport rendered possible"
Pointer did not finish his sentence for a moment,
but sat gazing attentively at his shoe-tips.
"They made great play at the inquest about her
being a woman of sudden impulses. But you were
saying?"
"Unless an impulse, I can only imagine one pair
of motives," Pointer finished slowly. "If she is
innocent, and hoped, or had reason to think, that
she could get at some fact to prove this, it would
be well worth her while to run the terrible risk.
And if she is guilty, and believed that she could
fasten the crime on to some one else—that, again,
would be worth it. Either way she would be proved
innocent legally, and could touch her husband's


SCARECROW
159
"You mean you think the man's sister did it?"
"She stood to gain a sufficiency by his death,
sir. She was entirely dependent on him. But for
her own death, she would have been as likely a
suspect as the wife."
But for her own death "echoed Pelham;
"by poison meant for her sister-in-law?"
"She would have had all her brother's fortune if
Mrs. Whin-Browning died, sir," Pointer reminded
the other. "As the facts seemed to be, no one
brought that out clearly, but it is so."
"And you think you can prove it?"
Major Pelham's look suggested that he thought
the possibility to be very remote.
Pointer did not tell him that he had commissioned
an ex-Scotland Yard inspector, a man called
Earnshaw, to look up the case. Starting with Ada
Greenlee, who, Pointer fancied from what she had
not said at the inquest, might have seen her mistress
touch the breakfast trays which were left outside
the doors of widow and sister-in-law. There were
two small pieces of evidence given by the cook
which tended, in his mind, to suggest Mary Whin-
Browning as herself the criminal.
The telephone rang. Several messages had arrived
over the telephone for Pointer. He returned to his
own office, and there looked at the latest inform-
ation. Mrs. Harding was definitely eliminated
from any possibility of having been on the cliffs
last Sunday night. So was Mrs. Simpkins the
charwoman. Mrs. Thompson's taxi had driven
her and her maid, and her cats and dog, to a nearby
cat show. The cats were left in their new quarters,
and the two women and dog had returned a couple
of hours later to the cottage, where they still were
at the moment of telephoning.


CHAPTER XV
LEMONS GROW IN MENTON
News had by now begun to come in over the
telephone about Inskipp. The first was from
Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Thompson had just seen the
paper, she said, and though she did not know
anything about Mr. Inskipp personally, she
recounted the facts about the letter that he had
written to her. She had unfortunately mislaid the
letter when a manager from the Lord Bishop Hotel
at Dover had called for it, but it had turned up
since, and if the Yard would like it she would at
once send it on by registered post. On Pointer's
vigorous nod, the constable at the telephone thanked
Mrs. Thompson, begged her to do so, and after a
moment hung up.
"Sensible woman, Mrs. Thompson. She realised
that the so-called manager of the Dover hotel
would get into touch with the police, and she
intended to be first," said Pointer. "Also, now
that her daughter is safely out of England, the
absolutely non-committal letter can be shown. She
could truthfully say that she had never met Inskipp
and did not know him. The letter will be useful
as affording a specimen of Inskipp's writing."
Then came two mistaken people who thought that
an Inskipp whom they had known years ago was
the dead man, but the description and the age
negatived that. Then came a Stock Exchange man,
a Mr. Barrett, who described a former partner of
his, who was undoubtedly the Inskipp lying dead


SCARECROW
161
in the Dover mortuary. He was asked to go down
to Dover and see if he could identify him. He
agreed at once. He had not heard from Inskipp
since he left the city, which was about seven years
ago, after mopping up quite a nice little pile in
Marochis.
Had Mr. Inskipp any artistic tastes? Music,
Pointer knew, was a strong point on the Exchange,
but Inskipp did not belong to any of its recognised
choirs or theatrical companies. Did he sketch?
Pointer wanted to know. The man at the other
end could not say. He looked the sort who might,
he added guardedly. A few more inquiries, and
Inskipp was given a very good character. He was
the kindest of chaps, said the speaker. Generous,
too. Always anxious not to do the other chap
in the eye.
Pointer fancied, from something in the other's
tone, that that lovable characteristic had been
rather a handicap on the Stock Exchange.
Pointer asked Mr. Barrett if, supposing he
identified Inskipp, he would be kind enough to call
in at his rooms at the Yard, and was told that
few things would interest the speaker more.
Other telephone calls came in. They were either
obviously no good, or they only bore out what
Pointer had learnt from Mr. Barrett. By evening
Mr. Barrett had definitely identified the dead body as
that of John Inskipp, but Pointer nevertheless went
to bed feeling that the Inskipp street was turning into
a cul-de-sac. Durban on Miss Rackstraw's pass-
port . . . wine-growing . .. Norbury a wine grower
. . . lemon groves, mimosa and maize. . . . But,
apart from the lack of any of the typical South
African field flowers, there was one other little
point against the farm being in South Africa.


l62
SCARECROW
Rackstraw had only stayed two days in England.
He had arrived on Sunday afternoon, and gone
back to Calais on Monday. That short stay,
supposing him to have also come from the farm
where stood the scarecrow, seemed very unusual, if
one assumed that the farm was in South Africa.
None of the three men linked with Inskipp came
forward. Yet Blythe, for one, must have heard of
the inquiry through his connection with Mrs.
Thompson. Rackstraw might not have seen the
notice in the papers—but what of Norbury?
Pointer had had another notice sent to the papers
asking the three men known to have been with
Mr. Inskipp at the Dover hotel to get into touch
with the Yard, and giving their names. The next
morning passed, however, without any news from
them nor of them.
"Blythe we can understand," said Major Pelham,
"if his whereabouts would point to Mrs. Whin-
Browning's hiding-place. But the other two?
Looks as though all three were mixed up in some-
thing shady."
Pointer agreed—with reservations—that it did.
The trouble was that so many people nowadays
only glanced at the leader, the chief political
events, and the stock markets in their papers, and
then gladly dropped the rest of its mass of verbiage.
Pointer wondered whether any of the three could
give him any light on Mireille. The name did not
suggest South Africa. He had once read a trans-
lation of Frederic Mistral's epic poem while con-
valescing from an injured leg in Marseilles. He
had seen the film of the name because of having
read that poem. He knew that it was an entirely
Provencal name. . . . And he knew that mimosas
and maize grow well in Provence. Inskipp was by


164
SCARECROW
tennis courts are quite good. They're in the east
part."
"Any farms around?"
"Flower farms. The earth is said to be marvel-
lously fertile. It isn't. But the sun is. Roses and
carnations grow like cabbages. But no vegetables."
"Any good vineyards?"
Richards shook his head. "Not good ones. But
plenty of places where the sour local wine grows,
though I except Castellar, which can be quite
drinkable."
Richards would have passed on, but Pointer had
one more question:
"Many lemon groves to be found there?"
"Lemons "Richards made a sign of holding
off an avalanche. "Menton gets a swelled head
every time you talk of lemons. They're not bad,
the Menton lemons, though they can't touch
Sicilian ones. Don't let them know that it was I
who told you that, will you ?" he added in mock
fright. "They'll stone me off the courts next time
I play there. I doubt if even ' Mr. G.' could get off
with such a sentiment."
"But are there farms which specialise in
lemons?"
"Look here." Richards shook his head. "Evi-
dently a lemon has committed a crime, or the
answer to one of our criminal hunts had been a
lemon, and you're on your toes to get it arrested.
Every hillside around Menton has at least one
lemon grove on it, I should say. Lemons, mandarins
—as they call tangerines, being ignorant and
foolish—and olives simply swarm on all the hill-
sides. Add mimosa bursting at you from every
comer, with roses such as we don't dream of in
England, thirty feet up the trees, and you have a


SCARECROW 165
fair picture of what the traveller out there has to
put up with." And this time Richards was gone.
Menton. . . . That scarecrow had hung and
swung in hot sun and plenty of wind, whether
Mistral or Bise. ... A man might rush to Dover
from Menton and return the next day, provided
there were great need of hurry, much more easily
than he would from South Africa. . . . Menton
lemons are small ... so were those on the trees
in the sketch. . . .
There is no aerodrome at Menton, but if you have
a pull, even in winter you can leave London at
quarter to nine, and be in Cannes at quarter to
four; and from Cannes it was only a question of an
hour and a half by train, or an hour by motor-car
along the Grande Corniche. Some eight hours in
all would do it. . . .
Pointer had himself put through to Menton.
The popular British Vice-Consul was out, unfortun-
ately, and he could find out nothing about any one
of the name of Norbury, either as a vineyard owner
or as a farmer in the neighbourhood,
r At Nice is a Consul-General. Pointer had met
some of the members of the consulate there while
on the Eames-Erskine case, whose end came in that
sunny town. He was put through at once, and
learnt that there, too, the Consul was away at the
moment. So was the first secretary, but one of the
assistant secretaries was speaking. Pointer wanted
to know whether the name of Norbury was known
there. It was not. He ran through the other names.
Inskipp? No. Blythe? No. Rackstraw ?" No—
oh—sorry! Wait a moment. There was an
accident to some one of that name. . . . V/ait, hold
the line a moment, will you?" Within that variable
measure of time Pointer was told that a young


SCARECROW
167
able to get into touch with him. His name was
Philip. Oh, sorry! No, it is Henry. Henry
Rackstraw."
"Had Miss Rackstraw's passport not been
handed in?" Pointer asked.
"No, there is a note here to say it couldn't be
found. Probably dropped in the ravine somewhere:
it's thought she had it with her as she was going to
the Red Rocks."
Pointer kept him at it until he was satisfied that
there really was nothing more to learn. Then he
was put through to the police of Castellar near to
the farm of the Golden Goat. He explained that
he was the solicitor to Madame Rackstraw, and
that there was some tittle-tattle . . . enfin, might
he ask just what had happened to Mademoiselle
Rackstraw? He heard the same story in French
as the Consul's secretary had given him, with added
details of the baboon and the baboon's keeper.
"Wasn't there a Mademoiselle Blythe among the
guests of Monsieur Norbury?" Pointer asked.
Yes, the police officer thought that there was, but
she was in Nice at the time, he believed. Anyhow,
she did not come into the story at all. As to the
farm, he gave it the highest character. Norbury
had bought it some five years ago, and had been
prompt in paying all taxes, and so on. . . . He
employed only French labour, which was another
good mark in the police eyes, and paid good wages
to them. He gave Pointer the exact address of the.
farm. Monsieur Norbury was there now? Oh, yes,
he had returned after making arrangements for the
sale of his produce in London. When? He had
returned home on Thursday. No, he rarely left
his farm. Once a year with his wife he would go
down to Marseilles to replace broken tools and buy


168
SCARECROW
the seeds and necessaries for the winter sowings.
What did the farm produce? Lemons chiefly, but
also oranges, mandarins, olives, with some cereals—
corn, maize—and a small terraced vineyard. What
of the guests at the farm? Were they still as when
the accident had happened? No, the man thought
not. There seemed fewer. But he could not speak
with any certainty. Certainly he had met one of
them only this morning. Monsieur Rackstraw. He
often came in for a permit to pass into Italy
about the Rochers rouges just across the border.
The Domaine itself was very close to the borderline,
which twisted and turned like a serpent.
Yes, Monsieur Rackstraw had told him that he
had just returned from a swift rush back to England
in Monsieur Norbury's company. He was about to
start on a magnificent film of the region which, so he
had told the policeman, would bring travellers from
all over the world up there in the hills. Yes, he was
a film writer as well as a savant, he and his friend
Monsieur—Monsieur—enfin, these English names!
"Was it Inskipp ? '*
"Parfaitment! It had just that extraordinary
sound . . . who was also a film writer and had
also a great interest in local legends."
"Where was Monsieur Inskipp?"
He had asked Monsieur Rackstraw about his
friend, and had been told that he had returned to
his home in England and wasn't coming out again
for some time—possibly not at all. Pointer heard
also of Mrs. Norbury, and of the respect in which the
quiet, very comme u faut lady was held. No, she had
not left the farm at all since going to Marseilles
last December.
"Was there any one in the neighbourhood of
the name of Mireille or Mir dou?"


SCARECROW
169
"Only the little baby of the schoolmaster."
"Did they take any English papers at the
farm?" came the final question.
The constable speaking had no idea. As to the
Blythes, he did not know if she and her brother
were still there or not. That ended the talk.
It had been a wonderful haul, all springing from
the sketch left in that drawer of a Dover hotel.
The murderer imagined that he had been so clever,
but he had not thought, or not had time, to lift
out the papers lining the drawers, and so find what
looked like a white lining, but which was in reality
a most important piece of evidence.
What interested Pointer most was that he now
understood how Edna Whin-Browning could have
got hold of the passport of Florence Rackstraw
without—necessarily—Rackstraw's knowledge or
connivance. Apparently the brother had been
absent at the time of the accident and for some
hours later and Miss Blythe might have found it
easy to take.
The apparently total lack of communication
between the two " Rackstraws" at Dover was also
accounted for. As for the death of Florence—
Pointer had no great opinion of French detectives.
There was a time when it looked as though the
murder of Englishwomen in France were going to
become a regular sport and one, moreover, in
which there was no close season. Was that death
what it seemed—a real accident? Or had Inskipp's
murder to do with some unexpected discovery on
his part of foul play concerned with it—not with
the older crimes? Time alone could show, but it
added yet another possible motive to be sifted and
followed up.
He left instructions with Inspector Watts as to


CHAPTER XVI
MR. PARNALL GOES TO THE FARM OF THE
GOLDEN GOAT
To Cannes, the nearest air station to Menton,
Pointer flew by Air France next day. He found a
pleasant, fresh-faced young man waiting for him.
Christopher Pelham looked as though he might be
of real use, Pointer thought. During the drive, an
hour's along the Grande Corniche, he gave him all
the details of the case. Pelham's silent interest was
of good augur, so were his few but intelligent ques-
tions. At Menton, Pelham, acting on instructions,
went to the Casino, to find a taxi whose driver knew
Castellar. Once at Castellar he would get him to
drive him round, past the Domaine among other
places, where Pelham was to stop for a drink, and—
struck with the peace, or the beauty, or the warmth
of the place—take a room. Pointer was walking up.
When he should finally arrive they would meet as
strangers. Pointer believed that Miss Blythe would
be already at the farm, or would arrive very shortly,
and that Blythe would follow soon. He would not
want to stay far from his sister-in-law if there were
any love affair between them, or even if the love
were only on his side, for she needed some one
with her. As for her, even though she now had a
passport which she could show, money must be
always a serious problem. And there were very
few places where she could stay without being
asked questions which she would find it difficult
to parry.
171


SCARECROW
It was a charming walk, but at last Pointer came
to the gate with its gilded name. He pushed the
gate open and walked on to a rambling two-storied
farmhouse. He made for the back. There he stood.
He had seen that blue door before—in a sketch
which was locked in a safe at Scotland Yard, though
a photograph of it was in his pocket. And from it
he knew those lemon trees on either side, and that
field of maize. But not the scarecrow, for this one
was a fat gentleman with a blue working blouse
tied around its shapeless middle over what looked
like pyjama legs, so stuffed with straw that they
nearly split. Yet the hat—as he glanced at it—
was like the one in the sketch—a tall-crowned black
felt with a great flappping brim.
Pointer rapped on the back door. A very pretty
girl opened it.
"I want to see a gentleman who is staying here
—a Monsieur Inskipp."
She led him round to the front of the house. A
swift glance up showed him a pair of green shutters
closed, save for one hinged middle part, which was
hooked up. In the opening, a pale face, shadowy
and almost hidden, was looking down at him.
"I will call Madame. The patron is in the
orchards. But Monsieur Inskipp has gone back to
England. He left over a week ago. You are a
friend?"
"I am," Pointer said, smiling. "I expected to
find that he had returned already. If not, he's
coming back here almost at once. I'll have a drink,
please—orangeade. And then perhaps I can have
a talk with Madame—her name?"
"Norbury," said Sab6, and went on into the
house.
A minute later Mrs. Norbury came out.


174
SCARECROW
seen nowadays. But we're conservative here. By
the way, his name is Horatius. Percy, who used
to stand here, changed places with him—and lost
all his clothes that very night, I'm sorry to say.
Indeed, he isn't really Percy any longer."
"An ancient tragedy?" Pointer asked lightly,
following her into the house.
"The very night before my husband left for
England, we think. My husband had only moved
Percy on the Thursday morning, for Mr. Rackstraw
always thought that Horatius should stand nearer
the house; he fills the eye better, he says." And she
laughed. Then she looked back. "That hat's all
that's now left of poor Percy," she said pathetically.
"When another guest—a Mr. Blythe—packed, he
donated such a magnificent grey felt to our cast-offs
on the very last day he was here that I gave Percy's
old black one to Horatius, and let Percy have the
grey to make up to him for being moved so far
from us all. With the result that that was lost, too.
I hope our herdsman and general factotum wasn't
for anything in its going. He thought it at the
time far too ' noble '—his word—for a scarecrow."
So the hat of the sketch had not been with the
rest of the scarecrow's clothes. And Blythe had
thrown one away just before leaving, which had
been placed on it instead. And Edna Blythe had
burnt a felt hat in her gas-fire the night of Inskipp's
murder. . . .
"But didn't the owner, or the donator, have his
name in it? I always put mine—not merely my
initials, which might fit other names, too."
"Oh, yes, he had his name on the hat-band. But
a hat-band can always be changed."
By this time they were standing in a big but
bare bedroom. He looked about him. He feared


SCARECROW
175
that it would be too sunny. "Where was Inskipp's
room? He has, of course, kept it on. He spoke of
it as so delightful and shady."
"He didn't keep it," said Mrs. Norbury. "We
don't expect him back for some time—not for
months, perhaps."
"But didn't he leave his trunk here?" asked
Parnall in a perplexed tone.
"Oh, yes, but another friend of his is occupying
the room—a Mr. Rackstraw."
"Well, will you put me as near to it as possible,"
said Parnall, "so that when Inskipp blows in we
shall be near each other."
He was given a smaller room next door to the
one temporarily being used by Rackstraw. A little
talk, and Pointer skilfully found out that Rackstraw,
on his return the other day, had asked for Inskipp's
room, and that Inskipp's trunk was being used by
him as a table for papers.
Then dinner was served. At any other time
Pointer would have found the low-arched, white-
washed, red-tiled room very delightful, but he had
now no mind for things that did not concern his
quest. As he came on in he saw—and recognised
from her portraits—a young, very pale woman, who
was standing by the fireplace. She looked tired, and
there were dark shadows around her eyes.
He was introduced by Mrs. Norbury to Miss
Blythe. Edna stared at him with dilated eyes for a
second as her hostess added that Mr. Parnall was a
friend of Mr. Inskipp's, who was, it seemed, coming
back almost at once.
Her eyes spoke of illness, mental or physical—
probably both, thought Pointer.
"A la bonheur!" said Laroche, coming on in.
"So Inskipp is returning. We miss him."


176
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This was a new member of the party at the farm
to Pointer, who liked the look of the Frenchman
from the point of view of learning about his fellow-
guests. But otherwise the indolent, cynical, clever
face told nothing of its owner's character, and
character might yet turn out to be the best thread
to follow in this maze. For men, in the last analysis,
murder from choice—not, as they try to believe,
from necessity.
Christopher Pelham came in and was introduced.
Norbury followed. He welcomed Pointer cordially,
especially, he added, as a friend of Inskipp's.
"His forerunner," Pointer said, taking the chair
assigned to him beside Mrs. Norbury. He mentioned
again how he had run into Inskipp, and how the
latter had spoken of returning to the farm almost
at once.
Norbury looked surprised. Edna, opposite
Pointer, did not move, she did not seem to breathe
for a moment, but with her eyes on the tablecloth,
looked nearly as white as it. Mrs. Norbury, as
though that would add weight to Pointer's words,
mentioned that Mr. Parnall was a solicitor.
"But Inskipp told me that he didn't know any
solicitors," said Norbury bluntly. Pointer wondered
of what they had been speaking when Inskipp had
said that.
"Inskipp and I haven't seen anything of each
other for at least five years," Pointer explained
easily. "But now I need his signature. It's a
question of one company buying out another
company in which he owns some shares. My firm
has to do entirely with company law. I rather
wonder what's detaining him."
Edna rose with an apology and left the room.
She had hardly touched her food.


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177
Mrs. Norbury looked after her with a wrinkled
brow. "She shouldn't have come by plane," she
said then, " if it upsets you, it does so frightfully."
"Fortunately she expects her brother back
to-morrow or the next day," said Norbury, "and
he may be able to get her to see a doctor down in
Menton, where there are some good ones." Then
he turned and asked Parnall about Inskipp's return
in the near future—a piece of information which
surprised him, as Inskipp, when he last saw him in
Dover, had dined with him and a couple of other
men who had been at the farm. He had spoken as
though he would be away for quite an indefinite time.
"It was at Dover that I ran into him—on Satur-
day afternoon," Pointer explained. "I crossed
by the night boat. He had only just arrived. Bad
crossing, I believe?"
"Vile!" said Norbury feelingly. '* Ah, well, I
may have misunderstood him at dinner—or he may
have changed his mind suddenly."
Pointer showed surprise at the farm having gone
in a body to Dover, as it were, and all of them
except Inskipp, apparently, for so brief a stay.
Norbury explained that the four of them had
each been meaning to go to England for some little
time, and had eventually decided to return together.
But Inskipp then, at any rate, had thought that
he was going to be away some months, and Blythe
would not be returning so soon but for his sister
being so obviously under the weather. "The two
seem to be quite alone in the world," said Mrs.
Norbury. Laroche spoke of the scenario from which
Inskipp had hoped for such great things. Pointer
did not pretend to any knowledge about it, and
listened with interest to the account now given him
of the joint labours of Inskipp and Rackstraw.


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Had Norbury been told something about Inskipp's
plans, which made it very unlikely that the latter
would change them suddenly? Something in his
tone suggested some such knowledge. Otherwise
no one, except Miss Blythe, seemed to have any
idea that all was not well. If Norbury had left
England on the Tuesday—as he must have done,
if not earlier—then it was quite possible that he had
not even seen an English newspaper. Besides,
nowadays with wireless, many people hardly ever
really read a paper.
"Dreadful affair that about Miss Rackstraw's
death, wasn't it ?" Pointer now said. "It seemed
to have upset Inskipp quite tremendously. At least
I gathered as much when he told me about it."
"Ah," said Mrs. Norbury with a gentle and
pitying smile, " had it? He is so reserved that one
can't tell with him. . . ."
"Think he was in love with her?" hazarded
Pointer on that.
"I'm afraid so," said his hostess.
Laroche burst in vigorously.
"Vous n'y etes pas, chere Madame! No! No!
Inskipp was not at all in love with that young lady.
She was the fisherman, he the fish. But he did not
do more than nibble at her line just at first. Oh,
I assure you I am right."
"Well, then, let us say that they were very close
friends," suggested Pointer.
"As distant as he could make it at the end,"
insisted Laroche, who liked to label things correctly.
"Of the dead no harm should be spoken, but she
was a dangerous, a very dangerous type. Malignant
and clever. The kind to do real harm when her
pride was hurt—as it was. Her grotesque pride.
Had she lived—there would have been trouble."


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179
"I think you don't allow for the total lack of
malignancy in us English," said Norbury. "Besides
—she is dead, and I think my wife is right, and so
is Mr. Parnall here, that Inskipp was much more
deeply hit by her death than one would have
guessed at a glance."
"Ah, but I don't guess and I don't glance !" was
the retort from Laroche, with a flash of white teeth
and a glint of narrowed eyes.
But Norbury stuck to his guns. "I am convinced
that in this case you underestimate the tenacity
and the strength of Inskipp's feeling. He said
something in the train, too, which bears us out.
Something about never altering once he loved."
"Mon Dieu !" said Laroche, opened-eyed. "He
was not such an imbecile, surely!"
"I don't think he was an imbecile at all." Nor-
bury spoke with warmth. "But I think he was a
man who had had a hard blow and who, for the time
being, thought the effects of it would never fade.
There are people whose affection goes deep."
And he looked at his wife.
Laroche shot them one of his mocking smiles,
but he let the subject drop. Pointer now had a
chance to ask him what he had meant by his speech
about Inskipp and the Golden Goat.
Laroche explained at great length. He had an
attentive listener. But he told Pointer no new
facts—only he shed some interesting lights on the
character of the dead man, the dreamer—the
follower of Fata Morgana—taking illusion for reality.
Rackstraw came back from some expedition,
rucksack on back, and was introduced. Mrs.
Norbury chanced to send a dish up to Miss Blythe
a moment later.
"Is she ill ?" asked Rackstraw.


i8o
SCARECROW
"She looks frightfully ill. I think it's possibly
some sort of low fever that she caught in those
valleys."
"If she walked about in Florence's hat, no
wonder she caught a fever," said Rackstraw, half
under his breath. "It's as thick as a bearskin."
"Florence's hat ?" asked Mrs. Norbury, evidently
all at sea.
Rackstraw nodded. "Quaint but true—like some
of the customs of the Albigenses that Laroche here
won't admit. Florence's hat disappeared when she
died. She had promised it to the Honey-woman,
who asked me for it later. It was nowhere to be
found, nor Florence's cloak, either. I thought
Sabe must have helped herself to them, though
neither seemed much in her line."
"Any more than helping herself to the property
of the guests here, I hope!" said Mrs. Norbury
with spirit.
"Oh, quite! Nothing insinuated against the
service, Mrs. Norbury. The two valuables in
question have reappeared with Miss Blythe's return
to the farm. They're back in the cupboard on the
landing where they used to hang. Which proves,
I think, that she took them with her—for a fancy
dress, possibly, but took them, none the less."
Mrs. Norbury shot him a very indignant look.
"I don't think that joke's in good taste, Mr. Rack-
straw. Miss Blythe is a lady. A lady doesn't help
herself to other people's clothes. The idea is
preposterous!"
Pointer, when he first saw her, had thought that
Mrs. Norbury looked the kind to speak very plainly
when she didn't like things. In her very carriage
too, straight-backed and unbending, there was
something uncompromising. What Mrs. Norbury


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181
thought should be rebuked she would proceed to do
in no smothered tones. What she thought should
not be tolerated, she would proceed to remove, and
nothing could stop her. So at least the very accurate
judgment of the Scotland Yard man decided. He
noticed that, though she looked confidently towards
her husband for support, Norbury said nothing.
As for Rackstraw, judging by his general appearance,
the day had seen some hard and dusty work on
his part, and he had evidently quenched his thirst
somewhat too deeply.
Laroche now made a reference to the Red Rocks,
and the talk drifted to them.
Blythe came down shortly after, and the two
new guests were introduced to him.
"You don't look as though your holiday had
done you much good," said Laroche frankly.
Blythe nodded and made no reply. But he took
a seat at table, so that his face was in shadow, as
Pointer made some reference to Inskipp, and asked
when he had seen him.
"Saturday before last." Pointer told him what
he had the others, and went on to speak of Inskipp's
apparent certainty, at that time, that he was
returning very shortly indeed to the farm.
Norbury and Rackstraw repeated their own
certainty that he would not be back for months.
"Yes, he wrote me, too, that he would be away
for months," said Blythe, as Rackstraw looked
at him.
"Well, all I can say is that it's very odd—very
odd indeed." Pointer let his face seem troubled.
"He as good as gave me an appointment here—•
since I was starting on a holiday to these parts. He
certainly would have written me if he had changed
his plans so radically. I told him about the papers


182
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I'm carrying with me, which must be signed some
time before the end of this month.
"I can't get it straight! None of you saw him at
breakfast. Pity!" as the three said that they had
not, "for I must write to my firm at once if he's
really not coming soon. Look here, when did he
pay his bill? Perhaps he's still in Dover. He
mentioned that he must go to the money changers
first thing on Monday morning, as he had only
French money on him"
"He asked me to settle that," said Rackstraw,
"and send his things on after him to the Cumberland
Hotel. And he might have included a cheque for
it—but didn't."
And then Pointer let him swing the talk to the
money and tokens used by the ancients along these
shores.
Pointer caught Norbury's eyes resting specula-
tively on him more than once during dinner. As for
Pelham, he was only the enthusiastic traveller
delighted with the weather and the scenery, and
the novelty of his surroundings. It chanced that
they both drifted out together for a stroll after
dinner.
Mrs. Norbury got up and made her way to the
garden, where her two new boarders seemed
absorbed in the skies above them.
"If you want to see a local celebrity," she said,
"come this way and meet our bailiff—and shepherd
—and astrologer all in one."
They followed her into the kitchen. The pretty
girl who had first spoken to Pointer was standing
by a stove with a very sullen look on her face,
while over her towered her father, brown-faced,
smelling of the thyme and juniper boughs on which
he always slept. He was talking warningly to her


SCARECROW
183
in the Menton patois, most of which Pointer had
no difficulty in following, for it was but a mixture
of French and Italian, but some of which escaped
him altogether, as for instance her reply: "Soch
di', non es ve, paire men," spoken tearfully as they
came in, and she fairly ran from the room. It was
an awkward moment, till Norbury coming in with
instructions as to some wattle repairing which he
wanted done in the morning, changed the atmo-
sphere. But Mrs. Norbury did not leave well alone.
"What were you saying to Sabe that she says
isn't true?" she asked sharply. "You haven't
any call to talk so crossly to her, Du Metri. She's
a good girl."
"She had better be!" said Du Metri with a
flush on his swarthy cheeks. "But who gave her
her new dress? The one for the festa? Eh? She
won't say, and I don't know."
"She bought it herself, probably," said Mrs.
Norbury.
"And the new shoes to go with it?" persisted
Du Metri in a low growl. "What is the use of being
able to read the stars as I can, when I can't find
out that? I know what the animals are up to, I
know what the swifts will do when they come back
in May, but I don't know what my daughter is up
to—no, I don't! Not for this whole year past."
"She's up to no harm," repeated Mrs. Norbury.
"I look after her quite as well as you could, Du
M6tri. But we shan't be able to eat her cooking if
you worry her so." Du Metri after a second turned
silently away, but Pointer followed him, asking the
name by which Du Metri knew this and that star.
Then he said casually, " Pretty names the Provencals
have. Take Mireille, now—is it a usual one around
here for a girl?"


184
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"Around here rarely, though MireiUe mes amours
used to be said, in my grandfather's time, to any
pretty little girl. Monsieur Inskipp asked me the
same question once. He thought 'MireiUe mes
amours' a quaint love-name."
Pointer was staring up at the stars.
"I wonder what the sky is doing at home to-night,"
he said finally. "It was a wild night on the Thurs-
day, the night before Monsieur Norbury and his
guests left for England. We had a tremendous storm,
yet they tell me it was very clear here."
To his amusement Du Metri confirmed this idle
statement. "The best of the mid-January orange
crop was picked that day, and if necessary we could
have finished by moonlight, the moon was so bright."
"You picked at night?" Pointer asked, as
though he had not understood the other.
"No, no! We finished late, but not so late. All
was over by ten, when I see to the locking of the
folds. It was a wonderful night."
"Do you mind telling me why you were interested
in the skies here last Thursday night?" Pelham
asked as Pointer and he drifted back to the little
nook where they had been standing when Mrs.
Norbury found them. "I caught your eye and heard
what he said. But why the interest in the skies
out here?"
"I wanted to find out if possible whether whoever
stripped the scarecrow, which stood in the maize
field when Inskipp painted it, could have done so
easily late at night—as far as light went. According
to the man in there, he could have."
"And according to the dog ?" asked Christopher.
Pointer laughed. "Just so!" He said no more;
but up in his bedroom he walked the floor with a
very grave face. Whatever he thought, was it safe


SCARECROW
185
to leave Miss Blythe and her so-called brother
free? A message to Brighton, and the French
police would arrest her for murder, and Blythe for
aiding her.
Major Pelham had left Pointer an absolutely free
hand in the matter.
Her face was very distinctly before his eyes. So
worn—so young. It was not in the least a poisoner's
face, for it was not subtle, and it was not cruel.
And if she were not the poisoner, what a hell on
earth her life must have been since the inquest
started. If she were not the poisoner. . . . If—
not
There came a knock on his door. Pelham entered.
"I say, can you lend me a box of matches ?" he
asked conversationally before he closed the door on
himself. Then coming close he whispered: "Does
that woman strike you as innocent? She doesn't
me!"
As Pointer closed the window without replying,
he went on earnestly: "That white face of hers
gives me the creeps somehow!"
"Yes, but are your creeps or her white face
evidence?" asked Pointer dryly.
Christopher gave a chuckle. "My creeps are a
subconscious warning," he said.
"Don't let it make you show your feelings
consciously." Pointer was very grave. "Not a
look—not a tone of your voice must suggest that
you have any other knowledge of the Blythes than
that of meeting them here as a complete stranger."
"You yourself are sure of her guilt, aren't you?"
Pelham asked swiftly.
"If she was telling the truth at the inquest—yes.
But if she was frightened, and told a lie about not
having moved the two breakfast trays outside her


i86
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and her sister-in-law's door the morning when
the other died—there's a chance, just a chance,
that she's innocent." Pointer explained his theory
briefly.
"Yes, but how to find out? What about giving
her a shot of sodium evipan and then chatting to
her?" suggested Christopher.
"Your uncle might think we were getting too
modern for the Yard," Pointer objected with a grin.
"But there are more prosaic ways. For instance, I
started a private detective looking into some
questions for me before we left London. He's a
very clever chap—an ex-inspector of the C.I.D.
who had to retire owing to an injury he received
in the course of his work. I sketched the lines I
want his inquiries to take, and, if he can get into
touch with the parlourmaid—Ada Greenlee was her
name—he may learn something useful. The coroner
obviously cut her short in something she wanted to
say. He thought it irrelevant—but I fancy it may
be vital. As a matter of fact, Earnshaw, the man
I'm having look into things, told me that the
parlourmaid—this Ada Greenlee—took a situation
in Dover. If so, it's possible that she was connected
with whatever took Inskipp out that wild night
of last Sunday."
"A note could have been slipped under his door,"
suggested Pelham, " by this Whin-Browning woman,
who then "He stopped. Laroche was coming
up the stairs, and, after a second, Pelham slipped
across the passage to his own spartan apartment.


CHAPTER XVII
POINTER IS INTERESTED IN A PHOTOGRAPH
AND TWO FRAMES
Later in the night Pointer drafted a telephoned
cable and with Pelham slipped down to the dining-
room. He found to his joy that the Menton tele-
phone and cable service was open all night, and
he buzzed through his message very quickly to
"Fraser of Lincoln's Inn Fields."
"F comme France. R comme Rouen. A comme
Angleterre," he chanted. The telephone was in
a quiet corner. Pelham watched by the stairs,
but Pointer was not overheard, though he sent
the message itself in code. Next morning, when
he would tell Norbury of it, he would say that
he had cabled to his firm of Fraser and Fraser,
Lincoln's Inn Fields. In reality, his cable was a
set of instructions to one of his men to go at
once to the Cumberland Hotel, get Inskipp's
luggage, which had been sent on there by Rackstraw
—supposing it had been sent and was still there—
and let him know the contents by coded cable. If
the passport was there, he was to send it him at
once by registered air-mail. Beyond this, with its
photograph, Pointer did not expect anything
interesting, though he would have been glad to go
over the luggage himself. But it did not seem im-
portant enough to justify the expense of flying
back to England for it. Inskipp was killed before
ten on Sunday night. The luggage was not sent
off till some time on Monday at the earliest. The


i88
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murderer would have had plenty of hours to see that
there was nothing incriminating in it.
The message sent, Pointer and Christopher were
free to go to bed.
Next morning the chief inspector was up early—
waked by the swifts at their morning hunting, by
the rattle of pails, by the clank of farm imple-
ments, by the myriad sounds of even a small
farm. Looking out, he saw Blythe in the garden.
The young man's face showed grey and pinched
in spite of its fullness. His eyes were heavy. His
lips compressed. Turning, he faced the house, and
gave Pointer's room that long, considering stare
which means that the eye was but the servant of
the mind which had outstripped it.
Pointer slipped on a raincoat, hung a towel around
his neck and went out, too.
Blythe gave him an unfriendly stare. "There's
no place to bathe up here—except the drinking-
water tank. And I have an idea that Mrs. Norbury
doesn't really like us to do that."
Pointer looked disappointed. He stood chatting
to the very unresponsive young man about the
journey to and from England. As he expected to
be returning in a fortnight, he explained that all
information as to the best trains would be useful.
He wanted privately to know just what had caused
the delay of a day in the itinerary of the three men
on the way from the farm to Dover, now that he
knew when the four had left the Golden Goat. But
that was not his chief interest. He could learn
that from either of the two others. What Pointer
was after was not a detail, but another possible trail.
If the Whin-Browning double tragedy of a year
ago was the real cause of Inskipp's murder, as
seemed probable, then beside him might stand a


SCARECROW
treble murderer—cunning and ruthless. But on
that question Pointer's mind was as open as the
field which he was facing. So for the moment
only his surface attention listened to what the
other was saying in a curt, unresponsive tone. But
at one word Pointer's whole mind was alert. In-
skipp, it appeared, had got out at Marseilles in
order to go on to Clermont-Ferrand, and had come
on to Paris by an express from there, reaching the
capital quite late on Saturday night. Skilful
questioning on Pointer's part drew out the fact
that no one was prepared for this sudden solo
flight.
Pointer ate a quick breakfast, but he had time to
get Blythe's information confirmed. He must follow
this up, and see if it did not lead to a Mireille
somewhere.
The post was just being delivered. There was a
bundle of newspapers for Albert Parnall, Esq.
Among them would be some of last week asking for
Inskipp's companions in Dover to come forward.
Pointer had intended to undo these now at table,
hand them around, and wait for the reactions, but
learning of Inskipp's stop on the way to Dover had
changed that. For, since arriving at the farm,
Pointer had been asking himself what sudden
change in Inskipp's plans had only made his murder
necessary when Dover was reached, seeing that the
farm, so close to the border of Italy, would have
presented far safer opportunities to get rid of him
to any one who knew how the frontier ran. For a
frontier murder is the hardest and the slowest to
get cleared up, since each side maintains that it is
the duty of the sister nation to start the inquiry—
among her own nationals. But for the clothing
found on Inskipp's dead body having come from


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191
possibly going on which the murderer knew might
force his hand at any moment. And that suggested
the corollary that Inskipp was worth more to the
murderer alive than dead, and that his death was
only looked on as a possible contingency—as the
lesser of two evils.
At breakfast Pelham professed a great interest in
the neighbourhood. Pointer had asked him to get
the men away from the house if he could, and for
as long as he could.
There was a certain hermit's cave not far away
of which Christopher had read in his guide-book, and
about which he asked many questions.
As Norbury was going to a farm on business
which was fairly near it, he offered to show it to
Pelham. Pointer professed a great desire to come,
too. Laroche was interested, so was Rackstraw;
in the end even Blythe was captured by the prospect
of a long walk, a sharp climb, and a wonderful
view from the hermit's " window."
At the last moment Pointer announced that he
had blistered his heel yesterday in walking up to
the farm, and had, to his apparent disappointment,
to give up the picnic, but the others went off, their
luncheons swinging on their sticks, or tucked into
their haversacks. Even Edna Blythe went as far
as Castellar with them.
Pointer hobbled about the garden watching,
without seeming to do so, until Sab6 clattered away
with pail and mop from the Blythes' rooms to his
own part of the house. Then he made his way to
the wing she had just left. It consisted of two
bedrooms, a sitting-room and a couple of empty
rooms, which could be used as cupboards and box-
rooms. The furnishings were simple. Edna Blythe
had not cared to have any luxuries sent her from


192
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Menton or Nice, he saw. Her belongings, too, were
almost pathetically few. Not a scrap of anything
was in the room linking her with her past, except
a few photographs of English country scenes.
Taken away, Pointer saw, from her mother's cottage
in Cirencester. He had noticed one snapshot of
some dogs playing with a kitten standing on her
mother's desk when he had been shown in by
Lady Thompson herself. Edna had considered
them evidently as quite "safe." Locked in her
simple suitcase he found Florence Rackstraw's
passport. It had been recently used into and out of
England. There was nothing else of any interest.
And in Blythe's belongings, nothing whatever of
any interest bar his pass-book leaves, a passport in
his own name, and letters from his solicitor to him,
as Blythe, c/o T. Cook & Sons at Nice. The Nice
branch had sent these latter on to their Menton
branch, and there, apparently, Blythe had called for
them. There was no reference whatever to anything
but financial matters in them. Blythe showed as a
man of considerable means, drawing on only a fraction
of his income, and keeping an unusually large sum
of money at Cooks in Menton.
As soon as he had put everything back as he had
found it, Pointer went down into the garden and
walked the little earth paths deep in thought.
Under ordinary circumstances he would have
notified the superintendent at Brighton at once
that he had found the woman for whose arrest a
warrant still ran, but the circumstances were not
ordinary. Pointer doubted if Edna would have a
chance of her life if she were arrested by Walker,
or handed over to him. Or if a chance, it would be
but of penal servitude. Her flight would tell
enormously against her, and the public prosecutor,


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193
he happened to know, believed firmly in her
guilt, and was a man who thought it high time
to show that if sex did not count in committing
a crime, neither should it count in its punishment.
Pointer decided to hold his hand for the moment.
Even if guilty, he could not see that there was any
other person at the farm who ran any danger by
allowing Mrs. Whin-Browning a little longer free-
dom. It was a tremendous risk to take, but Pointer
decided to run it.
Catching sight of Sabe's pretty face looking
dreamily out of the window of Pelham's room, he
went up to his own, locked his door, opened with
one of his own master keys the door between his
room and that now used by Rackstraw, after
locking that farther room's door into the passage.
Then he set to work on Inskipp's trunk. It opened
easily enough to his practised fingers, and the
contents kept him busy for some little time. There
were no private papers whatever among them, but
at the very bottom was a set of five cabinet photo-
graphs of Inskipp himself taken in Menton.
welcome one. So far, Pointer had only the police
photographs of Inskipp's dead face to show, and
he saw by these how different Inskipp had looked
in life. There was here none of that serene tranquil
calm which had so struck him. On the contrary,
it was a dissatisfied face, yet a very attractive one,
in spite of the fact that Inskipp had no claims to
good looks. He turned to the backs, and there, in
the middle of the batch which were fastened with a
paper band, was one with some writing on it.
He read in Inskipp's neat, clear writing:
"It's much too flattering, as you will find when
we meet, so don't say then that I didn't prepare

unexpected find, and a most


194
SCARECROW
you, Mireille, mon amour." The last words were
scratched through, and "Mireille mes amours"
was written above. The correction was probably the
reason why this photograph had not been sent.
Pointer abstracted it, and passed on to the study
of some newspapers which were tied together with
tape. There he found the accounts of the Whin-
Browning affair which had appeared at the time.
How had they come here into Inskipp's possession,
supposing him to have been the one who had put
them in the trunk? At any rate, they meant, if
laid there by Inskipp, that he had learnt who the
Blythes were, and so confirmed Pointer's idea that
Inskipp might have offered his help—his very
much wanted help—to the cornered woman. Had
any one else seen the papers? If they were Inskipp's,
how had they got into his possession? Had he
come to the farm, knowing whom he would find
there? But, in that case, why the long delay before
undertaking, as Pointer thought he possibly had,
to look into the case on Edna's behalf It seemed
on the face of it more likely that he had come on
these papers a short time before he left for England.
They had been roughly handled, whether by him
or another. Could he have found them somewhere
on the farm? That meant the possibility of others
having read them, of others also knowing the facts
about the Blythes. Pointer did not think for a
moment that no personal papers had been left
behind by Inskipp in his trunk any more than in
his suitcase. Whoever had taken these away might
easily have undone the bundle of newspapers and
glanced over them, seen the portraits—and recog-
nised at least Hector Whin-Browning.
Pointer replaced the papers and locked the
trunk again.


196
SCARECROW
might, since they rarely agree about them. Cer-
tainly, if any one had wanted to stave off inquiries
about Inskipp, nothing better could have been
drafted, or if Inskipp had himself wanted to be free
of troublesome inquiries. But it seemed very
unusually comprehensive in letting Rackstraw do
what he liked with what was, after all, the
work of many months, what must have carried
with it accordingly very high hopes. Certainly by it,
the scenario was tossed to Rackstraw to do with as
he liked. Convenient but hardly likely, Pointer
thought. Unless Inskipp had learnt of something
so vastly more important that the scenario was,
as it were, wiped off the slate, at least for the time
being. But this letter was not merely for the time
being. Any time after its receipt, Rackstraw might
have sold the scenario for a sixpence, and Inskipp
could not have complained. Most convenient for
Rackstraw—with this prize in the offing. But was it
likely that Inskipp would have troubled to write
something of no advantage but to Rackstraw?
Even if he had had no time at the moment, would
he not rather have put everything off till sometime
when he should be free?
On the whole, that letter looked very incriminat-
ing, though nothing in the characters suggested
Rackstraw's writing. Not a letter nor punctuation
stop was as he made them.
But one thing was certain. Rackstraw had had
the opportunity—to put it at the lowest, of reading
those newspapers which referred to the Whin-
Browning affair. Once again, Pointer left every-
thing as he had found it, and went for a turn in the
sunshine. As he walked, his mind turned over what
he had found. Quite apart from the possibility that
Rackstraw knew who the Blythes really were, the


SCARECROW
197
use that he was making of the dead man's papers
strongly pointed to a knowledge of the writer's
death. It also, in itself, given some natures, furnished
a sufficient motive for that death. Pointer's mind
went on to the words on the back of Inskipp's
photograph. Strange words. Evidently Mireille
was some one whom Inskipp loved—and yet had
apparently not met. This last, if so, set her aside
from any possibility of being the cause of a murder
from jealousy. "Mireille, mes amours "... the
caressing words were strangely pathetic. But, so
far, no help in the hunt. He must go to Clermont-
Ferrand once he knew what he wanted to do there.
The fact that Inskipp had stopped over there—
unless for some antiquarian interest—suggested
that he had an appointment with some one who
lived in the town, since he could have arranged a
much more convenient meeting place directly on
the Marseilles-Paris line. Or, if not an appointment,
then that he intended to pay a short visit to some
one who lived there. If Mireille were the answer,
Pointer would have expected Inskipp to have
stayed longer than just over a train or two. As
for blackmail of the Whin-Brownings on the dead
man's part—Pointer cut that possibility out for the
present, unless it obtruded itself. Everything to
him suggested the contrary.
In the late afternoon Pointer got the reply to his
overnight cable. Inskipp's suitcase had been handed
over to the Yard against their receipt. Its contents
were given one by one in cipher in the cable. There
was a passport—now of no importance since Pointer
had found the photographs. There was a watch
—which Pointer thought had been dropped in after
being taken from Inskipp's body. The main spring
was broken. The hands pointed to three o'clock.


198 SCARECROW
The murderer had probably had the sense to alter
them to a perfectly safe hour. He had made few
mistakes so far. The careless hiding of boots—the
oversight about the brass bed-knob at the Dover
hotel, were not more than slight blunders.
There was no cheque-book, nor any papers or
letters whatever inside the suitcase. But stuffed
down at one end was a grey felt hat—with Inskipp's
name inside. The murderer collecting Inskipp's
things from around his room had probably put it
there, Pointer thought, the considerate murderer
who had so roused his neighbour's gratitude! So
no cheque-book had been left in the suitcase. That
was indeed a very striking omission. Was something
recorded in its counterfoils? Was the murder
connected with money? But there was something
found by the searcher in the suitcase which was
odder than the absence of the cheque-book. It was
either an omission or a presence according as one
looked at it. On top of all, said the cable's order of
coding the contents, were two silver photograph
frames—empty, which by their size had contained
cabinet photographs. They were identical in every
respect, made of handworked silver, representing
wreaths of olive branches. They had the French
hall-mark on them, and had been made within the
last five years. Pointer at once asked for one of the
frames to be registered to him by air-post.
If the taking away of the cheque-book and all
money records looked as though money might be
mixed up in the crime, as it so frequently is, then
the fact that the silver frames were empty looked
as though jealousy could not be ruled out, unless
here was a trail of the Whin-Browning affair. But,
if merely for any purpose connected with that
tragedy, Pointer could not see why the frames


CHAPTER XVIII
THE GUESTS LEARN THAT SOME OF THEM
HAVE GOT INTO PRINT
Pointer had his package of newspapers lying ready
in his room.
With Inskipp known to be dead—murdered—
people who had any information about him—and
were innocent—would talk far more freely than if
he were alive. That fact turned idle gossip into
possibly useful information. But before that, he
wanted to get a chance for a general chat on Inskipp
separately with Rackstraw, and with Laroche, when
they should return.
They came in around noon, hot, dirty, and very
pleased with the scramble. At lunch, Pointer
mentioned that he was going down to Menton
shortly, and might spend some days there, roaming
along the coast.
"He means Monte-Carl'!" said Rackstraw to
that. "Better leave your return fare with Nor bury,
Parnall, just in case the luck's against you."
Pointer laughed and said that possibly he might
riot get much farther than the Rock, and they
talked of the casino there and of what you could
win—and lose.
"So you don't expect Inskipp back directly?"
Norbury asked.
On the contrary, Pointer said, he would wait till
he had arrived before leaving, and so saying, he
ran up the stairs for his bundle of papers. He was
ripping off the wrapping as he came in, saying that
201


202
SCARECROW
most of them would be too old to be interesting,
but that he had had the Express sent on to him
for every day that he had been away, as a solicitor
must " keep abreast."
He shook out the top one, and ran through it
quickly. Then the next. Suddenly he gave an
exclamation. Grasping the paper which he was
reading, he rose as though under some violent
emotion, the paper shaking in his hand.
"What's wrong?" asked Laroche, turning
curiously. He had put Parnall down as a man of
iron nerve and self-control. This yelp of distress
surprised the Frenchman.
"Inskipp!" said Pointer in a strangled voice.
"Inskipp! Good God, he's dead! and the police
suspect foul play. A body, found in a Dover shelter
and thought to be a tramp's has been identified as
Inskipp's. Inskipp's!" His voice rose in a very
telling crescendo of horror.
"Here! May we look?" said Norbury, getting
hold of the paper.
Pointer seemed in too much of a trance to reply,
and the men each helped themselves.
"Why, in this one, we're asked to communicate
with the police, too," said Rackstraw suddenly.
"No, no!" said Norbury. "Just a general
request that any one who knew Inskipp should come
forward. Oh, I see "as Rackstraw thrust the
paper that he had secured under his nose. "Yours
is later. Yes, you're right. We are named as having
accompanied Inskipp to the Lord Bishop Hotel, and
asked to get into touch with Scotland Yard as soon
as possible."
"May I see ?" said Blythe in a level voice. He
was the only one who had not grabbed some paper
from the pile.


SCARECROW
203
"Well," said Norbury, " at any rate, now that we
do know about it we must send a letter at once to
Scotland Yard. I should think you, Parnall, will
be their best hope of useful information, you are a
friend of his. We're not."
"I haven't seen him for years!" protested
Pointer. "Good heavens! What an incredible
affair! Inskipp of all men!" Then he went on to:
"What can lie behind his murder? Evidently the
police have no doubt that it was murder."
"Men don't usually knock themselves on the
head," said Rackstraw to that. "I wonder how
much money he had on him? Obviously, that was
why he was killed. Mistake to carry money on you.
I suppose some heftly tramp pitched him a pitiful
tale, and Inskipp out with his pocket book, drew
forth a wad of notes, giving him one—and that was
enough. I notice they don't speak of finding any
money on him."
"They didn't find anything on him," said
Norbury, reading on, "Amazing! It doesn't sound
like Inskipp at all, surely there's been a mistake!
But no, this is his portrait all right. But what was
he up to? Nothing on the body but striped trousers,
a frock coat and white canvas shoes. Nothing else I
No shirt nor waistcoat. No underwear. In mid
January! What became of his clothes? On the
journey—and at the hotel that evening, he was
dressed in—let me see, what was he wearing?"
Norbury took a pencil.
Rackstraw and Blythe helped with the compila-
tion.
"Where did he change?" demanded Norbury.
"Why did he go to that shelter? When? The paper
speaks of between nine and ten as the time when he
was killed. Incredible! Seems fantastic—utterly!"


204
SCARECROW
"I must let Miss Blythe know," said Blythe
suddenly. Mrs. Norbury came in, and was told—
and shown—the news. She, too, could hardly credit
it at first. But as she read on, she suddenly gave a
little cry.
"Striped trousers and a black frock coat. Both
very worn. In holes—Arthur, it's Percy! The
clothes that were taken from Percy!"
"Percy," echoed Laroche blankly, " Percy who?"
"The scarecrow !" she said excitedly.
Norbury shook his head slowly. "Impossible,
Ellen. Those things weren't taken until after we
had all left."
"Their loss wasn't noticed till after you left,"
agreed Mrs. Norbury. "Du-Metri had no cause to
pass there on Friday, but he says that on the
Saturday after you left he noticed only the bare
cross-sticks of the scarecrow standing in the field."
"But," said Laroche, hardly able to keep his
face straight, "forgive my smiling, I oughtn't to,
I know—but the idea of Inskipp in my old frock-
coat—and with your hat, Blythe"
Rackstraw laughed outright—Blythe went very
pale. Mrs. Norbury looked shocked. They were
talking of a death—of Inskipp's murder! said her
stony glare. Laroche murmured an apology, and
tried to rearrange his face. Blythe slipped out and
up the stairs.
"They are those clothes," said Mrs. Norbury
obstinately, reading the description again.
"We'll put the possibility before the Dover police.
But frankly, I can't see why Inskipp should have
wanted to take them as a disguise "—the moment
he had said the words, Norbury stopped as though
silenced by some sudden thought.
Pointer looked doubtful, but before he could


SCARECROW
207
Pointer nodded. "I ought to get the answer
within three hours. Perhaps less." He knew that
it would be a good deal less, for his reply being from
the Yard would have priority.
Norbury walked with his heavy farmer's tread to
a door into the yard. Pointer followed him, for he
had an idea that Norbury was debating some
question in his own mind. Probably, thought
Pointer, something which he wanted to tell him—
was it about the Blythes? Or was it something
which would link Inskipp to Mireille? He was too
experienced—and too wise—to try to hurry Norbury.
His type is self-starting.
I nstead, Pointer got a lif t in a camion hurrying down
from the farm with empties. At Menton, he cashed his
cheque at the English Bank. He had made arrange-
ments before leaving town which enabled Anthony
Parnall to cash cheques up to a hundred pounds at
sight. He then asked for a word with the manager,
but the latter was away, on the bank's business in
Turin. His return would depend on events there. The
bank was empty of customers. It would close in five
minutes. Pointer lit a cigar with the air of a man
inclined for a chat. He explained that he hoped to
get some information about a client of his as well
as an old friend, a man called Inskipp who had died
very suddenly while home in England.
The cashier to whom he was speaking gave a
sympathetic exclamation and took his eye off the
clock. He knew Mr. Inskipp quite well—as a
customer of the bank. Why, he had only been in a
couple of weeks ago. And before he left, Parnall
knew all that there was to be known, for, to the dead
man's solicitor, the cashier spoke frankly. Pointer
learnt that Inskipp had asked the manager about
a solicitor at Clermont-Ferrand ... he heard


208
SCARECROW
about the cheque for a thousand pounds changed
after a week into thousand-franc notes. The
manager had the numbers. . . .
That apparently exhausted the information to be
extracted from the bank, and Pointer thanked him,
asked that the numbers of the bank-notes taken by
Inskipp be considered very confidential, and left
the bank by a side door. Turning the corner past
the British consulate, he made for the photographer
whose name was on Inskipp's photograph. The
man was no help. Inskipp had merely come in for
his portrait, taking six cabinet-sized ones, and had
not talked to the photographer at all. Pointer tried
artists' materials, and shops where silver frames
could be bought, with no better result. Inskipp
had evidently taken his purchases with him. He
tried hotel after hotel, asking whether Inskipp had
ever called on friends there, still with no result.
The casino likewise knew him not. Then he tried
the two libraries that supply English readers—at
neither place was Inskipp known. Nor at the
bridge clubs.
Driving back to the station he thought over the
case afresh. Why had Inskipp asked for a cheque
for a thousand pounds in the first place, and then
been anxious, or appeared to be anxious, to exchange
it for notes? And this had been done in mid-Novem-
ber, and, two months later, mid-January, had come
the crime in which a scarecrow's clothes figured so
strangely.
The truth in a murder inquiry comes into view
like a distant landscape. At first only a far-off, faint
blur shows that there is anything to be seen. Then,
little by little, first one thing then another can be
divided into their respective kinds—a tree comes
up as a tree—a mountain shows as a mountain—


SCARECROW
209
water glitters. Next, the tree proves to be an oak.
The mountain takes on an outline different from
other mountains. The water must therefore be a
certain lake which lies near that mountain, and has
a certain oak growing close to it. By that time, fields
become recognisable, roads show their trend, and,
last of all, people have faces—not mere discs, and,
finally, by their features, they too are known.
Pointer was only as yet able to tell one object
from another, that the tree was a tree—not, as it
had seemed yesterday, a rock. He might guess who
the murderer was, but that was only a guess as yet.
Back at the farm, Pointer found that a long-
distance call from Paris had been taken down for
him. It sounded like a message from his sister,
but it told him that Laroche had been constantly
seen in Menton in the company of a well-known
writer, and had with him attended several local
literary gatherings during all the days that
interested Pointer.
As for the others who had been at Dover, Pointer
learnt at dinner how impossible it would be to prove
where any of them had been that evening or night
in Dover. After finishing their coffee in the lounge,
none of the little party of four had apparently seen
each other again that night.
Pointer left the others talking, and slipped upstairs,
but he was fetched almost immediately. The cable
from the Yard had come. It seemed to have drawn the
Blythes to the room as though it were a magnet and
they were steel filings. Pointer merely glanced at
the slip of grey-green paper before handing it to
Norbury with the suggestion that he should read
it aloud. He himself had drafted it before leaving
town. It ran:
"Your offer accepted. Do not think it necessary


210
SCARECROW
as yet to apply to local authorities and hope not
to have to do so if you take charge of inquiry at
farm. Collect all possible evidence including signed
statements from the three who were in Dover.
Request them to remain in touch with you." It was
signed New Scotland Yard, C.I.D. Branch.
"Very discreet," said Norbury, and seemed about
to add something but, if so, changed his mind and
handed the cable instead to Miss Blythe whose hand
was half-outstretched towards it. She stared at it
a moment before passing it on to Mrs. Norbury and
then went on out into the fresh air, wrapping herself
up in her thick cloak as though shivering.
"Now, there's another thing we can do," said
Pointer cheerfully when the cable had gone the
circuit. "Didn't you tell me, Mrs. Norbury, that
Inskipp, poor fellow, left a trunk with you here?
It ought to be corded up and sent untouched to
Scotland Yard, or the Dover police."
"I'll see to it at once," Norbury promised.
"Relieves me of all responsibility—if any one claims
anything is missing."
Exactly!" Blythe's voice, too, registered
hearty approval as he hurried after his sister.
"I'll help," Rackstraw volunteered.
Pointer left him and Norbury getting cords
together and went on out to a corner of the
orchard for which he had seen Edna Blythe
making. And there, with the moon turning the
violets to silver, he saw her looking up into Blythe's
face with her own as white as the clump of wood-
anemones beside her. Blythe's attitude suggested
that he was comforting her—or was it reassuring her?
Pointer walked on and waited. Something in the
woman's face made him think that the talk would
not be a long one.


SCARECROW
quite flat and thin—though very strong. Dear me,
Mr. Parnall, you're quite a detective!"
"Did Mr. Inskipp speak French well, or would
the young lady have had to talk English to him
when they met?"
"She was half-English, he told me. But now
about his murder, Mr. Parnall," and her face
changed at the words, and seemed to grow years
older. "How in the world did he come to be wearing
what really does sound like the clothes off the
scarecrow that used to stand near the kitchen door?
Mr. Inskipp in those rags!"
No one at the farm had yet, as far as Pointer knew,
suggested that it was not Inskipp who had put
those clothes on himself—that he had not been
alive when he wore them.
"But without the hat," he reminded her. "That's
very odd. In a disguise a hat is the most important
thing, one would think. Yet no hat was found near
Inskipp. One of the papers says that the police
think the omission most important and are basing a
very important theory on its not being found."
She snapped off a branch of early orange blossom.
"How ridiculous !" she said, sniffing at its sweet-
ness in the short twilight. "Why, he was probably
wearing the hat, and something happened to it."
"I wonder if he had any money in the band,"
Pointer suggested.
She tossed the sprig away. Pointer retrieved it.
He could not bear to see a flower broken and flung
aside. No human hand can put together those
miracles, and it is not for man to destroy one
wantonly.
"Why should he have?" she asked shortly.
"I feel sure the hat blew away before, or after, he
was killed. Quite unimportant either way."


2l6
SCARECROW
Marseilles to Paris, a train left Marseilles for the
Rubber Capital, as it is often called, owing to the
huge Michelin tyre works there—arriving in
Clermont around half-past seven. To reach Paris
as he had that same night, he must have taken a
latest the half-past two afternoon train from the
town. The morning hours suggested a business
engagement. But what business? Banks? Or an
investment? Or a doctor? It must have been
something very urgent. ... He had a bank at
Menton. . . . that thousand pounds . . . was it
business of an investment type? . . . The question
overheard by the cashier about a solicitor suggested
this. Also, a solicitor seemed a very possible man
to try at that early hour. Had it been on or for
some business of the lovely, mysterious Mireille's
that Clermont had been chosen—that cheque
changed for notes?
He reached the farm and went upstairs to where
Sab6 could be seen flitting about in the passage.
"You've heard, I know, that Monsieur Inskipp
has died in England. Yes, run down by a car. Now,
I'm acting as his friend or as his brother would, if
he had one."
Sabe nodded. She understood perfectly, she said.
"But he may have a real brother somewhere.
Or a mother? Now the only way to find out is to
remember what kind of letters he used to get. Did
he receive many?"
"Constantly, monsieur. Every ten days or so.
Never two weeks between them. From Clermont-
Ferrand. From the lady in Rennes they used to
come weekly. Every Saturday. Without fail."
"The lady in Rennes? She might be able to
help us. Who was she?"
Sais pas, monsieur. But the writing was


SCARECROW
217
beautiful. Perhaps she was English. The paper was
English."
"How do you know that the paper was English?"
"Well, I suppose it is, as Mademoiselle Florence
had some like it. It was found when she had the
accident. It is not like paper sold here in the shops.
Madame uses it now."
"I wonder if I can see a piece?"
She darted away like a dragon-fly, and was back
in a minute. In her hand a used envelope of a
peculiarly repellant shade of blue. But the envelope
was the square, English shape—unlined.
"That was always the paper she wrote on. But
the envelopes were thick! So thick! She sent many
many pages. I will put this back on madame's
desk." She darted off and back again.
"Are you sure it is the same paper? Not merely
rather like it ?" Pointer asked.
"Positive, monsieur. It is too ugly to be mistaken
about, eh?"
"And you think a lady sent them to Monsieur
Inskipp?"
Sabe's eyes danced.
"Monsieur, I saw him kissing the paper once!
His door was ajar. And if you had seen his eyes
when the postman handed him one. As if all the
stars, and the moon, as well as the sun, were shining
at once! And when they stopped he was inconsolable.
A face as though he had not slept at nights. But
he got over it! And soon he forgot all about his
lady in Rennes and it was all Clermont-Ferrand.
And fine silver-grey paper. But no more beautiful
writing. No, the writing was like that of a child.
And then it was typed. Always typed. And never
another letter from Rennes after the first one
reached him from Clermont-Ferrand. I think the


218
SCARECROW
other lady got married—or engaged—and the
affair had to end."
"And you think the letters from Clermont-
Ferrand were written by a lady too? Why?"
"Allez, monsieur! As if one could not tell by
his face—his shining eyes—the snatch of his hands
to take it. The reading of it when alone. Oh, he
looked again just as before—until at the last when
he was worried. He told me he had lost a lot of
money. I asked him if it had been stolen, and he
said, yes, it had been. Is it not terrible! People
who steal should be guillotined. Except, of course,
food. Stealing food is not stealing, it is human
nature. My father won't let me say it, but I do
say it!"
"Now about the letters from Rennes—did you
ever see any of them lying about? Were they in
English?"
Sabe had only seen the envelopes of the letters
in question.
"Could you write down how they were
addressed?"
Sabe at once wrote in her careful writing:
Monsieur Inskipp,
Domaine de la Chevre d'Or,
Pres Castellar,
A. M.
"And how were those from Clermont-Ferrand
addressed?"
"Precisely the same."
"The lines, too, arranged just the same?"
"Just the same."
"Did any one else get any letters from either of
these towns?"


SCARECROW
219
"From Rennes? Mademoiselle Florence, the
mademoiselle who was killed, got one once a month.
Also, she knew this lady of Monsieur Inskipp's."
"How do you know that?"
"Oh, he used—in the beginning—to pull out his
letter and talk to her about it. And she would ask
him about it. One could tell they were discussing
the lady he loved. Monsieur Inskipp would blush—
like a jeune fille, and mademoiselle would laugh,
and laugh, when she left him! Oh, she thought him
very funny, one could hear that!"
"Did you ever hear any girl's name men-
tioned?"
"Mireille," said Sabe instantly; "but do not tell
madame I know so much. She thinks it indiscreet
in a pension. There were two names they talked of
when the letters came. Mireille and Madame de
Pra. That is a name easy for me to remember,
for Madame de Pra was the name of the woman
who used to sell honey here when our hives went
sick. Mademoiselle Florence used to talk a great
deal to her. Our Madame de Pra lost her eyesight
later, and had to go to stay over in San Louis with
her son. She was so clever at getting honey,
monsieur, she"
"One moment, Sab6, you're sure they weren't
talking of your Madame de Pra?"
"But no! She is always called the honey-woman.
Only Mademoiselle Florence and we of the place,
of course, knew her real name. Even madame does
not know it. Mademoiselle Florence was very
curious. She was always asking questions."
"Had this Madame de Pra any one called Mireille
in her family?"
Sabe' laughed outright. "I should hope not,
monsieur. She and her son are both hunchbacks.


220
SCARECROW
And Mireille only goes with beauty, we think. No,
Madame de Pra has no relatives but her son."
"And when the letters from Rennes stopped,
did Mademoiselle Rackstraw and Mr. Inskipp
continue to talk of Mireille and Madame de Pra?
"She had her fatal accident just then," said
Sabe\ thinking back with the ease of the peasant,
whose whole theatre and library are the foreigners
in their midst, and whose memory, trained to mark
dates by the time of the year—the harvest of this—
the sowing of that—is very lasting, and often very
accurate.
She evidently did not connect the two facts
except by time.
"And was it long after it, that the letters from
Clermont-Ferrand first started?"
"About a fortnight. Gentlemen have short
memories. My father is always telling me so—
and he is a wise man. But what grief for the second
lady, monsieur! She must know that he is dead
because she has not written lately."
"Not necessarily. He would have told her that
he was leaving here, and have given her an address
in England to which to write."
Pointer did not believe this, but it would satisfy
Sabers sympathy.
"Who else received letters from there ?" he asked.
"The patron—at least he receives circulars—
advertisements of things for the farm. Otherwise?
Monsieur Laroche has a relation there—an aunt, he
told me, who is going to die and leave him all her
money. He hears from her now and then—no one
else ever has letters from Clermont-Ferrand.
Coming, madame—J'arrive! J'arrive!" and Sab6,
with a polite little bow of excuse, flew down the
stairs to Mrs. Norbury who was calling her.


SCARECROW
221
Pelham stepped in. Pointer in a few succinct
words told him of the latest developments. Chris-
topher shook his head.
"I'm hopelessly out of my depth—but, look here,
I fancied that hat having been altered on the
scarecrow means something to Miss Blythe. But
how could it have had any significance to her?
You think it had? Don't tell me what. Let me at
least reason that much out. The rest is beyond me,"
and he vanished on to the landing.


CHAPTER XX
mireille's identity becomes a puzzle
Miss Blythe had a late supper served in her room.
But the others were in the dining-room, and Pointer
mentioned to Blythe the portrait seen by his
"sister " in the silver frame.
"Had you seen it before? In Inskipp's room?"
he asked Blythe.
"Seen it before—yes," said Blythe shortly, " but
in Rackstraw's room, not Inskipp's."
Every one looked at Rackstraw, who only stared
at the speaker. Pointer repeated Edna's description
of Mireille.
Rackstraw looked surprised and something else
as well. "That's the portrait of a girl who died just
before her film was to be shot. The Cradle Song.
I was in Barcelona at the time. The portraits were
taken to see how she would photograph. The
director was a friend of mine—is still—and I took
the portraits off with me one day when he wasn't
looking!"
"But," said Mrs. Norbury, who had been greatly
interested in the news about Mireille, " How could
Mr. Inskipp show the portrait of a dead girl as his
fiancee? It can't be the same girl!"
"Had the girl, in the portrait Inskipp showed
you, golden hair, fastened back with a ribbon?
Was she standing in a garden of lilies, bending over
them? Old convent garden?" Rackstraw asked.
Blythe assented.

She was run over on

222


226
SCARECROW
He spoke with certainty, but Mrs. Norbury would
not let this theory pass. She much preferred her
husband's.
"I agree," Laroche said finally, "there wasn't
much of exaltation left in Inskipp before he went
back to England—when he got into financial
difficulties, I mean. He went round with a very long
face at the end—that much I do concede."
"What financial difficulty was Inskipp in?"
Pointer asked. He heard again about the loss of
interest—and possibly of capital—from his shipping
investment. "Yet after it, he let you, Mr. Rackstraw,
deal with his scenarios of Haroun as you liked," said
Pointer in a very puzzled voice.
"Oh, by that time he had got his hands on
something good," said Rackstraw very decidedly,
"or thought he had. I noticed before he left the
farm for home that he had lost all real interest in
his writing. He was for ever reading over old news-
papers up in his room. Going in for journalism,
perhaps."
Edna's spoon rattled. She laid it down hastily.
She had accepted some stewed fruit. A moment
more, and she slipped from the room.
Pointer, when supper was over, went into the
garden and out along the lane for a quiet smoke.
His theory was proving itself. Inskipp had used a
thousand pounds for some object, not long before
he was in low financial waters. And apart from the
money taken in thousand-franc notes, there was
the odd, the very odd story of the portrait said by
the dead man to be that of his fiancee, " Mireille,"
yet claimed by Rackstraw as the picture of a dead
Norwegian girl.
Something about Rackstraw's manner—or voice—
was peculiar. His story might be sheer invention,


228
SCARECROW
shut. As to giving that poor woman away—I
couldn't. She's absolutely innocent of the charges
against her. But whether Inskipp stirred up some
hornet's nest when he took on the job—that's what
I'm inclined to think."
"And was that when he spoke to you about
knowing no solicitor to turn to in England?"
Norbury said that it was, and on that they parted.
Pointer went for a turn by himself in the cool,
fresh air.
That thousand pounds . . . and SaWs account
of the letters which came first for Inskipp from
Rennes—and then, after Florence Rackstraw's
death—from Clermont-Ferrand, fitted together and
fitted his idea that something underhand might have
been going on with Inskipp as its hub.
Taken in conjunction with the discussion as to the
identity of the photographs, Pointer believed that
a very heartless game had been played with Inskipp,
a game which had been continued as a crime.
Begun, he thought, by Florence Rackstraw, as some
sort of revenge—or retaliation, but continued by
some one who saw in the love-letters purporting to
come from the beautiful Mireille a chance to get
some money out of the romantic dreamer. The
idea would probably have been to claim that
her marriage—or some terms of her husband's
will if she were a widow—was a bar to her re-
marriage. Some such tale would enable the person
behind the cruel joke—presumably Florence Rack-
straw—to account for the difficulty in Inskipp
meeting his lovely correspondent. Pointer thought
it more than' probable that she had been represented
as married to some jealous brute of a husband, from
whom in common humanity she should be set free.
And here the thousand pounds might fit. Divorces


230 SCARECROW
with the money, he could see no reason for Blythe
needing to get a thousand pounds by any such
means as he was presupposing, and Miss Blythe, by
her conduct in England, by her return to the farm,
did not suggest a person who had obtained a thousand
pounds only three months ago.
At this stage in his reasoning, a hail reached him.
It was Pelham's clear voice calling his name.
Pointer called back, and a moment later the two
met.
"Registered letter from England for you, Parnall.
Come by air."
In France, no one but the addressee can sign
a receipt for a registered letter, and Pointer
accordingly hurried back to the farm, leaving
Pelham to wait for his return. That young
man did not have to wait long. He, too, spent the
time in cogitation, and when Pointer reappeared, he
greeted him in a cautiously low voice with the
murmured remark that he still couldn't see what
the changed hat on the scarecrow meant to Miss
Blythe and would like to be enlightened.
Well," said Pointer to that, "it suggests
strongly that she was not in the scarecrow murder-
either as accomplice or accessory. For if so, one
would expect her to have been familiar with the
idea of leaving him dressed as a tramp in garments
taken off the scarecrow—to which Mrs. Norbury
had just added Blythe's hat. What happened
strongly bears out the idea that she came on the
hat unexpectedly—just before she saw Inskipp's
dead body, or just after it—recognised it at once,
and connected Blythe with the murder. And so,
partly for his sake, possibly for her own as well,
since he was her only helper—she decided to get
rid of the hat—by the means that we know of.


234
SCARECROW
"You can take every word in it as absolutely
certain and proven," he said gravely.
"My sister-in-law? Impossible!
"The breakfast trays," Pointer said now.
"I thought—my solicitor thought—it would be
fatal to speak of it."
"Because he thought you guilty," Pointer said
to himself.
"I did change the trays, yes," she confessed.
"They were just alike, only the wicker border of
the one at my door was broken in one place. You
couldn't see it if you didn't know it, but my sleeve
had once caught on it and been torn ... so I gave
it to her . . . and took the one outside her door
for myself."
"That's what I thought possible," he said
reflectively.
"Mr. Parnall, as I said before, you really ought
to have gone in for detective work. Scotland Yard
would be the place for you! You think—it really
is proved?" She was quite overcome for the
moment.
"You will be able in a very short time to return
to England for good. Mr. Blair is a power in the
newspaper world—so is his paper."
"But this man—Earnshaw—how did he come to
write to you about me?"
"Obviously Inskipp had got him started,"
Pointer said easily. "And knowing, evidently, that
I am looking up Inskipp's murder—he has written
to me. But now, in return, will you tell me several
things I want to know. First of all, how did Inskipp
learn who you were?"
For a while Edna could only talk of herself—her
past danger—her present relief. Then she grew
calmer and told him what Norbury had already told


SCARECROW
235
him and what he had divined for himself. She told
him of the payment, unknown to her brother-in-law,
of the two hundred and fifty pounds which he had
spoken of, registered to himself somewhere in town.
There was a little pause and once again she was
back at her own wonderful delivery from the very
depths of despair. He let her run on for a while,
then he said suddenly:
"Miss Blythe, Inskipp has helped you—through
Earnshaw"
"He has saved me!" she corrected, her voice
quivering, tears on her cheeks.
"Then help the search to find out who murdered
him," he said urgently. "For instance, I think you
know more about that Sunday night that he was
killed in Dover than you have told. Be frank, Miss
Blythe. It can't hurt innocent people."
"But how can J know anything about Dover?"
Her face was waxen again.
He said nothing, only waited. But his eyes spoke
for him. She gave them a long look.
"I don't know how you guessed it. I think you
must be a wizard, not a solicitor—but you're right
—at least in that I, too, was there—in Dover. I was
so homesick, Mr. Parnall. I loathe all this beauty
around me, I want to be back in my own country—
not condemned to exile for ever!" Her face worked
and she covered it with two very thin hands for a
moment before she went on quietly, " So when they
all went home—I couldn't bear it, and I went too.
They didn't know about it. Mrs. Norbury, like
them, thinks I went for a few days into the valleys
all around us. But I left on the next day—the
Saturday—and owing to the chance of their having
stopped over a night in Paris we crossed by the same
boat. I went second class and third on the trains!"


236
SCARECROW
"But how could you have got past the passport
officials ?" he asked as though suddenly puzzled.
"I managed it," she said with a flush on her
cheeks. She did not want to confess to that horrid
theft of the passport, though she did not regret it
for a minute. And though it had brought her the
terrible experience of the hat and Inskipp's dead
face looking up from the floor of the shelter, it had
also let her go to her mother's house and have a
talk with her which had entirely relieved the
mother's dread about her daughter's fate, for
Edna had not dared to write the facts.
"Oh, Mr. Parnall," she said now, following back
on those thoughts, "when can I let my mother
know?
"She'll read about it to-morrow morning when
she opens her paper," he said, smiling at her. "You
can exchange cables of mutual congratulation.
And now, excuse the question, but how do you
manage for money?"
At the frosty look in her face, he said quickly,
"Forgive what seems an impertinence, but as a
solicitor, it often happens that we can arrange
loans—furnish supplies."
At that she looked at him very gratefully.
"I wanted my mother to try and induce her
solicitor to help me—advance me something of my
husband's money—which will come to me as soon
as his death is cleared up. So far, he has refused.
He—he didn't think I could be cleared," she said
sadly. "But of course now—everything is changed!
Everything. I can manage all right for the moment.
Oh, Mr. Parnall, you can't know what this news
means to me!"
"I'm asking for a return," he warned her.
"Remember, I'm trying my hardest to find out


SCARECROW
237
what happened in Dover that night. So, will you
tell me everything that happened to you after you
left here?"
After a second's hesitation, she told him even,
at the end, how she had taken Florence Rackstraw's
passport, when she—Edna—ran away to Nice the
day of Florence's death, and how, later on, she had
taken the peculiar hat and cloak which Florence wore.
How she had gone on to the cliffs for fresh air on the
night of her arrival in Dover, and how she had by
chance, stepping into the nearest shelter, trodden
on a small electric torch, switched it on, and seen
Inskipp's dead face not a yard away.
She said nothing about the hat, nor did Pointer.
She told how she had stumbled back to the boarding-
house, and then, when well enough to go, had made
up her mind that she must get to her mother.
How, when she had arrived at her mother's cottage,
and been received by the old servant who had known
her as a girl, she had found her mother absent and
sat down to wait for her return. Edna, in telling it
now, quite flung herself into this part. Pointer
understood how, once the curtains were drawn, the
lights lit, for the first time since she had seen
Inskipp dead, poor Edna had had a feeling of being
safe and among friends. Then she had noticed a
letter on the mantel, and the maid, faithful Lily
Bridges, had explained that that was a letter about
which a gentleman was coming to inquire from the
Lord Bishop Hotel at Dover where a Mr. Inskipp had
met with an accident. Edna had immediately
realised that that letter might put the hounds on
the scent. She had carefully not given her mother's
address to Inskipp, but evidently he had found it
out for himself. Edna had snatched it off the mantel,
and just then the front door-bell had rung.


238 SCARECROW
"It was a manager from the hotel, a dreadful
man !" Edna leant forward earnestly," who wouldn't
take no for an answer. Poor Lily was at her wits' end
to get rid of him. Finally she thought she had done it,
and then what does my dear mother do but bring
him in with her? She met him at the gate and
knowing nothing about any reason to be careful
with him—she didn't know Inskipp's name, or
that I had ever met him—she told him to come along
in and she would let him have the letter. I still
don't understand why they wanted it at the hotel—
as a specimen of his writing, I believe. But at any
rate—there we were! Luckily I had snatched up
the letter when I ran upstairs on his first ring, so I
was able to tell my mother not to have anything to
do with any inquiries about him—it seemed a
shabby thing to do—for I liked Mr. Inskipp—I
liked him immensely—but I was in a dreadful
position, Mr. Parnall." Edna for a moment was back
in sad memories. Then she roused herself. "My
mother thought I was mad to have come back and
in dreadful danger of being discovered now that
something had happened to Mr. Inskipp, and she
was certain that only my brother-in-law, Hector,
could help me back again. I didn't want him. Oh,
I didn't want his help!" Edna's voice rose for the
moment. "But my mother had telephoned to him
before telling me what she had done, and together
they smuggled me out of the house. They actually
seemed to think there might be some one watching it.
So absurd! But you know how, when one is
frightened, one starts at every shadow." She stopped
and suddenly smiled a real smile. "I don't think
you know much about fear," she said then, "but
/ do. I do!" Her face grew sombre again. "So
I came back here. There was nowhere else to go


240
SCARECROW
"Why not?"
"He's fond of me," she said after a little hesita-
tion. "He—he wants to marry me, and—and I
had been indiscreet enough to let him see that I
would get away if I could. That but for my helpless-
ness I wouldn't stay a day—an hour. And he
resented that. He thought that in common decency,
gratitude, I should want to make up to him for all
he had given up for me. And I don't !" she added
with sudden fire. "Not a bit! You might as well
ask a bird to be grateful to the man who keeps it
in a cage. I only want one thing—one thing which
most people have without asking for it—without
having to scheme and suffer for it—freedom! I
made the dreadful mistake of letting Hector see
that—just as before, in Brighton, I made the
dreadful mistake of letting the coroner know it, who
thought that I had murdered my husband to get
free. If I had been a murderess, I should indeed have
been tempted to murder Hector these many months
She paused, quivering. Pointer brought the
subject back to Inskipp.
"You really know nothing about his affairs—
his people—his family?"
She did not. "Yet I have something to show
you—something which has oppressed me frightfully,"
she went on. "But it was impossible until now to
hand it over. Not that it had any connection with
poor Mr. Inskipp's murder "she stopped and
rising, looked at him suddenly. "I wonder if you
have any idea what is coming," she said.
"I hope it's some letter he wrote to you before
setting out for his last walk," he said gravely. He
had a hope that since it might have been to meet
some one linked with the Whin-Browning affair,
past!"


SCARECROW
241
Inskipp might have sent a line to one of the Blythes.
And that, if one or both of them was innocent, they
might yet find it.
Edna's eyes were wide. "What a good guess!
It is a note which only makes things more perplexing.
But you shall read it for yourself in a minute. I
always carry it on me with my money."
She went into her bedroom, but in a moment was
out again, a folded envelope in her hand. Taking
it, Pointer saw that it had been posted in Dover
on the night of Inskipp's murder. It was addressed
to:
Miss Blythe,
Domaine de la Chevre d'Or,
Pres Castellar,
Alpes Maritimes,
France.
Inside he drew out a sheet of paper. He read:
"Dear Miss Blythe,
"I have just reached Dover after a foul crossing.
Your letter to Ada has brought me a note from her
and an appointment for this very evening which I
am looking forward to immensely. Her promptness
seems a good omen. I shall write more fully
to-morrow morning.
"Sincerely yours,
"J. Inskipp."
"Your note to Ada ?" Pointer queried.
Edna made a gesture of bewilderment.
"I didn't write to her. I knew she was some-
where in Dover, but not where. I can't think what
Mr. Inskipp means. Nor who wrote him. How


SCARECROW
243
I congratulate you? I've begun to fear lately that
only a miracle could set you free. And now it's
come." His voice was husky.
She let him hold her hands but she gave him a
very steady, searching look.
"I know," he answered it, "I know, Edna."
Real regret seemed to sound in his voice and look
from his eyes. "I haven't played the game. I know
you don't love me. And now you never will. I
thought I could force it. Well "he gave her
hands a squeeze and then stepped back, "all I can
say is that I'm most devoutly thankful for this news.
I'd begun to fear that it was impossible—especially
since Inskipp was killed."
She stared at him as though not able to believe
her ears. Then she held out her hand with a quite
different gesture. "I owe Mr. Inskipp a lot, yes,
but don't you suppose I shall always remember that
but for your help—twice over—I shouldn't be in
any position to profit by this news about Mary.
Twice you helped me at the risk of your own free-
dom—you gave me a refuge here at the farm—oh,
Hector, I can never thank you enough—shall always
think of you with the most intense gratitude"
"And forget ?" he asked almost humbly.
She gave his arm a friendly squeeze and he went
on into his own room. Then she turned to the chief
inspector.
'My brother-in-law is too modest as to what he's
done for me," she said, as though in explanation
of what must have puzzled him in their talk.
Pointer again repeated his own good wishes, and
added that he was leaving the farm early to-morrow
morning for a trip along the coast and perhaps into
the charming towns behind them. As he said good-
night, Edna looked as though she could have


SCARECROW
249
tangle after his own heart. Here were events
stirring on the plane of the mind—the only plane
where he cared to live.
"Usually a murder "—he wrinkled up his hps
in disgust—" bah! Sordid and stupid generally.
But this tale of the photograph—that was a woman's
trick, monsieur—in the first place! De Pra is quite
a common Provencal family name. Mireille, of
course, is not common—but not uncommon. The
society of Filibriges et Fdlibrigesses keep it alive.
They are what one might call the Mistral Society of
France. And now what?"
Pointer was off to see the place where he believed
that the other, spurious Francois might have been
visited by Inskipp on the last day before his
murder. And Pointer believed that here lay the
real motive for Inskipp's murder, though the
letter from the real Maitre Francois had been
the actual cause. Its arrival—even without
knowing its contents—would have told the
criminal that the time must be counted in hours
during which Inskipp could be continued to be
hoodwinked. Inskipp, so Pointer thought, and so
the criminal would think, would have returned as
soon as possible to France and to an interview with
the genuine Maitre Francois. Yes, Pointer thought,
he had the motive now. But how was he to bring
the crime home to the man whom he believed to have
done it? 1
"I would like to see the office of this pseudo
Maitre Francois," he said now.
"Nothing to see—literally," said the avocat,
facing him, " the office furniture was sold by auction
the day after that' Finished ' cable reached Oreille."
"Is the office to let? Could I get an order to
look over it ?" Pointer persisted.


250
SCARECROW
"My head clerk can manage it, doubtless," said
Francois carelessly. "He tells me that Oreille's
son works in a film studio, and that a film of some
sort was to have been taken—' shot'—is the terra,
I believe—there, but the cable stopped that appar-
ently. It would have been worthy of the best
Hollywood traditions, that office-scene! Lambert—
my head clerk—learnt that the furniture intended
for the occasion was the same as that used for the
filming of some scenes from the life of one of our
multi-millionaires—one of 'the twenty' as we call
them nowadays."
He pressed the bell. His head clerk, Lambert, a
big, stout, fair-haired Norman, took Pointer to
Francois Oreille's late office. He obtained the key,
and let Pointer in to the two rooms. The back room
was but a cupboard, but the front room was of
noble proportions, with a beautiful ceiling, freshly
tinted.
"That must have been the work of Yvon, the
son," explained Lambert. "He used to be an
interior decorator's assistant before he took to
working for the Films d'Auvergne Company. And
the guilded woodwork—parbleu, it must have been
done for that film that they intended to take here."
The gilding meant to Pointer that the woodwork
was not to be tacky next morning. It is the quickest
drying medium known to the ordinary decorator.
He asked Lambert to find out for him on what date
the film furniture had been taken away. Lambert
went a little way down the mean street, and came
back to say that it had been the night of Friday,
December 15th, when the furniture had been moved
in, and therefore the day of the sixteenth when
the last of it had been moved out again.
Pointer had opened the locked letter-box during


254
SCARECROW
the arrest—or rather detention—would come the
formal procedure of extradition, and the handing
over of the criminal to be taken back to England
there to stand his trial.
On to Menton, therefore, Pointer went in a car,
and found himself in a little town temporarily gone
mad, for this was the afternoon of the third day of
the lemon festival. The police station is a part of
the hotel de ville, outside the door of which a pair of
particularly engaging lemon trees hang their pendant
balls of sunshine sky.
Pointer had no eye for their charm as he strode
past, only to find that there was no question of his
business being even considered to-day, for all the
heads of departments were out at the unveiling of a
monument by a cabinet minister.
Pointer handed in a letter against a receipt and
asked that, as soon as the commissaire returned to
the office, it be handed to him, as the matter was
extremely urgent.
That done, Pointer went to the post-office tele-
phone and rang up the farm. There was no reply.
The telephone branch to Castellar was momentarily
out of order, he was told, but they hoped to have it
repaired within the hour.
He stood awhile outside the handsome post office
building, deep in thought. A passing woman ogled
him, and flung a handful of plaster confetti into
his face. He did not look up. A band of young
people went singing down the winding street a
famous old song of good King Renews.
"0 Magali, me fas de ben
Mais, tre ve veire
Ve lis estello. 0 Magali
Coume au pali."


SCARECROW
257
vexed. But this is not what I came to the farm
about.'
Mrs. Norbury came out then, and Squires explained
that he had returned sooner than was expected
from Turin, and had just heard of Inskipp's terrible
end. What could have been the motive? Mr.
Inskipp's solicitor, Mr. Parnall, he went on to say,
had been inquiring at the bank about a transaction
of Inskipp's which would, of course, in the normal
way have been treated as confidential, but in view
of what had happened to Inskipp—there followed
a general talk as to what that could have been.
Then the manager, prompted by Blythe, returned
to the explanation of what had brought him to the
farm, which was to hand over to Parnall a list
of the numbers of some thousand-franc notes which
had been taken away by Mr. Inskipp some time
before his end. "Oh, dear me, yes, they were paid
over to him in mid-November." Further than that
Mr. Squires' revelations did not go.
He sat awhile with Mrs. Norbury in her sitting-
room, and then, as her husband had not yet
returned, the bank manager decided to take
advantage of the chance offer of an empty taxi
returning to Menton from the village, and left with
his hostess an envelope containing a copy of the
numbers of the notes in question to be handed to
the supposed solicitor when he should return.
Mrs. Norbury stood at the gate and saw him off,
then she turned to Pelham who seemed very much
at a loose end, and who had sauntered after her and
her guest.
"Mr. Squires said something to me just at the
last moment about having been passed by my
husband's shepherd on his way up here. That must
mean Du-M6tri. But Du-Metri and Sabe are in


SCARECROW
259
"Sealed? No." The manager looked uneasy.
"No. Certainly not. The envelope flap was not
stuck down. I had no idea the numbers were
confidential. French notes! Surely there Was no
point even in giving you the list? After all these
months." Mr. Squires was rattled by the suggestion
that he had been at any fault in the matter. "I left
the list with Mrs. Norbury, who promised to hand it
to you herself. But—frankly—the three other men
staying at the farm—Rackstraw is the only one I
know—looked at the list, too. Just glanced at it,
you know."
Pointer did not hope for much from the list,
except as the starting point for laborious inquiries
later on. He left the bank with yet another copy
of the seventy-five numbers. He was able to dart
across the road to the post office and try his luck at
the telephone again. This time he was put through,
and after a longish wait, he heard Pelham's voice.
"'Ello I 'Mo! Q'est que c'est?"
"It's Parnall speaking," Pointer replied. "On
my way back to the farm. How's everything?"
"Damned funny," was the reply. "Mrs. Norbury
has disappeared. We're hunting for her. Norbury's
beside himself. A postman was bashed over the
head an hour ago on his way down to Menton not
far from the farm—nothing whatever was taken, he
swears. Apparently he was just slogged for the fun
of the thing. And it was just about then that no
one could find Mrs. Norbury. She's still missing.
We've hunted high and low."
"What visitors have you had at the farm to-day?"
Pointer asked at once.
"The bank manager from Menton. No one else.
He left for you a list of the notes which he had once
given Inskipp. Norbury is certain that the man


SCARECROW
26l
of which she was lying. And she understood that
a call had saved her—for the moment.
The door of the barn was shut, but she could crawl
to it, and then—when the speakers had passed out
of sight, she might be able to slip out. She found
that she could not move an inch in its direction. As
some people cannot jump from a sinking ship or a
falling plane, her muscles refused to obey her will.
Or was it that beneath the surface-will another will
refused to give the command? Mrs. Norbury had
looked murder full in its horrible face—the shock
had been profound. Her mind refused to right itself.
She heard Rackstraw's voice. She heard Blythe and
then Laroche . . . she knew that now was the time
to call for help and escape the doom so very close at
hand. But she could not stir—she could not make her
tortured throat let one sound pass. She cowered
closer to the floor where she had been dropped,
when a hand had all but touched the unlocked
door of the barn where she was clutched in
a silent death-struggle. She lay motionless while
the voices receded. Then came a sound at the door
and she sank still lower on the boards. But it was
the noise of the door being locked, of the key being
swiftly pulled out, and then there was again only
the receding voices, talking about the fete down in
Menton.
Now she was locked in—to be the more completely
at the mercy of the murderer when he could slip
back unnoticed. At that, the power of motion at
last came back to her body. She staggered to her
feet and unbolted the shutter of the unglazed
window. Heavily, stiffly, she clambered through the
opening, and swung the shutters shut as best she
could with a couple of swift jerks. She might have
only a few minutes' grace in which to hide. And all


262
SCARECROW
her dulled mind was concentrated on hiding till
it should be dark, and she could really escape. She
was not capable of any sweep of thought. She was
still too stupefied with her danger. But inside a little
circle her mind moved swiftly and surely. Where
could she hide? Nowhere, was the answer. No-
where. There was no hay kept at the farm, no
fodder for cattle. That meant no hayricks, or barns,
or lofts. The trees? Mrs. Norbury had never
climbed a tree in her life, even supposing that there
was one nearby that could have hidden her. The
grain and corn in the fields were but a span high
as yet. In the house, too, there was nothing that
would detain a searcher. Yet she had but to raise
her voice and she would have been safe. But she
could not even get one sound out from those
squeezed cords. Also, there are those—of which she
was one—who in moments of extreme peril seem to
revert to some distant age, before speech—before
cries—were possible. To such, a shout—a word—is
the last thing that the cornered mind suggests.
Flight, soundless—and noiseless. Concealment.
Absolute silence—these alone occur to such brains.
And Mrs. Norbury, standing trembling outside the
barn, could think of no possible spot in which to
hide. The scarecrow facing her swayed and seemed
to bow grotesquely. He had been rifled of his straw
for the cart, the "Mas Provencal." True, some
one had stuffed rags in place of the straw, but they
were already slipping out as he swung in the breeze.
A wild notion came to her. She ran to him where he
stood, not in the field of maize which was a mass of
trim little hillocks, Norbury had not allowed any
careless foot to be put on those laborious ridges, but
in a corner of the lemon orchard. In a second she
had stripped off her dress, made, like all her dresses.


SCARECROW
263
in one. For a moment she stood in her shorts and
trim underbodice, then she flung her rolled-up dress
far into the nearest hedge. That done, she ran to
the scarecrow and pulled on the trousers, old ones
of Norbury's, spread the stiff, square, head cloth of
the dummy over her own head, and tied it around
her neck with the same piece of half-rotten rope,
slipped into the overcoat, and put the battered
hat rakishly on one side of her head. Her feet were
far short of the openings to the trouser legs, her
hands far above the edge of the sleeves, for she was a
little woman. A broken rake was close by, probably
it had been used to collect the straw. She drove it
with one strong thrust deep into the earth at the
foot of the scarecrow to about the right height to
support her in a half-sitting position. Then, each
hand holding a bundle of rags, she slipped her arms
through the rope bracelets which had fastened the
scarecrow's arms to the wooden cross-piece, and took
up her position. The cloth had had two black
buttons sewn on in place of eyes, she had torn them
off, and in so doing tore the weather-beaten calico.
That was all to the good. She could see out with
ease. Half-seated on the teeth of the rake, half-
standing on a big stone which had been placed at
the foot of the scarecrow to brace it upright, she
waited, her heart beating almost to suffocation.
If she could pass muster—and she believed that she
could—she might hope to escape when darkness fell.
It seemed a long time before she saw a man
walking swiftly towards the locked door of the barn,
saw him look about him, quickly take a key from
his pocket, unlock the door, and, stepping inside,
shut it behind him. But only for a moment. The
next, he was out again and rushing round to the
window through which she had climbed. Back


SCARECROW
267
"Then she's having her hair waved. Anyway,
she's safe somewhere."
But Norbury went on hunting, and so, therefore,
did Pelham, for he had just answered the telephone
a few minutes earlier. And so finally, as though
to make up for his negligence of just now, did
Blythe.
Rackstraw tailed behind looking very disgusted
with things.
"Why don't you get Du-M6tri to help? That
bank manager fellow said he passed him on the way
up here," he suggested.
Norbury did not trouble to stop, he only called
out that Squires was talking through his hat, that
he didn't know Du-Metri by sight.
This was the scene which Pointer found when he
whizzed up on his machine.


270
SCARECROW
have rushed forward but Pointer's calm voice through
the dining-room windows checked him. "Better
leave it to them, Pelham!" The chief inspector
knew how susceptible the French can be, when it is
a question of an arrest on French soil. It was a
pity that the others were too far off to have a
chance of stopping the running man, for the police
had made the mistake of thinking of Norbury—in
spite of the accusation against him—as the Norbury
whom they had hitherto known. They had left a
place open in their circle, and he had dashed through.
Pointer felt sure that he was making for some
definite objective known only to himself, prepared
by himself within the last couple of hours for this
emergency—improbable though it had seemed.
A ladder against a wall somewhere, and a car on the
other side he rightly guessed, and once in the car,
there would be scant hope of capture, with Italy so
close. Norbury would know the frontier twists and
turns like any smuggler. He would be sure to have
plenty of friends among those gentry, too, on both
sides of the frontier. Once let him get clear of the
farm, and he stood a very good chance of escape.
He was running, too, like a trained athlete. Pointer
bent over the scarecrow that he had laid on the
sofa. So he did not see the tall figure that rose
suddenly in front of Norbury and closed with him
just before he reached the hedge. Du-Metri had
muscles of iron. He needed them.
The gendarmes were at his side in a moment. It
took the three of them to master Norbury, who
fought first for freedom, and then for the possession
of one of the policemen's revolvers. Once he broke
away for an instant—once he all but got the revolver
in his grasp. Round and round on the ground the
tangled heap surged, all arms, and legs, and heads,


SCARECROW 271
and boots, but in the end the policemen rose,
'pulled a handcuffed, very battered Norbury to his
feet, hauled him to the car, slung him in, tumbled
in after him, and drove off. The scene had had a
nightmare quality of lack of speech about it, which
suggested something seen in a motion-picture show.
I wish I'd had a cinema camera," said Rackstraw
breathlessly. He had not offered to join in the struggle.
"I found a note to Sab6 slipped in the basket of
confetti," came, in heavy breathing, from Du-Metri.
"Asking her to meet him at the wine vats—to
meet him—my daughter!" Du-Metri became too
Mentonnais to be coherent. One of the gendarmes
took him to the kitchen, while the guests at the
farm followed the commissaire into the room where
Pointer had laid what he claimed was Mrs. Norbury
down on the farm's one sofa. He had already untied
the rope around the neck which held the calico
cover in place, and they all now saw the white little
face inside it. They saw, too, the four purple bruises
on the one side of her neck and the dark, single mark
on the other where the strangler had got his grip on her.
"Brandy!" said Pointer. And held it to her lips—
"if she can swallow "—but Mrs. Norbury could not.
He had to content himself with trickling a very
little water between her parched lips.
"What happened here ?" asked the commissaire,
helping to fill the spoon. "I have your letter—but
what is the reason of this?"
"The Menton bank manager left the numbers
with Mrs. Norbury of the notes that he had handed
Inskipp to the amount of a thousand pounds "—
Pointer broke off to see if by altering the position of the
unconscious woman they could get her to swallow.
"But Norbury knew we all knew the numbers,"
put in Pelham, " He didn't try to harm any of us!"


272
SCARECROW
"Evidently, therefore, the notes didn't matter
to any one but Mrs. Norbury," Pointer explained
without looking round. "So she must have known
some fact about them, and, I feel sure, taxed him
with it. The two were in Marseilles together making
purchases for the farm after the notes were paid to
Inskipp by the bank. Finding that she had some
dangerous knowledge—or proof—he evidently tried
to strangle her, and only some lucky chance must
have saved her life—for the moment—and given
her time to slip into the scarecrow's clothes, and take
its place in that orchard."
questions, relieved Pointer from his place at the head
of the sofa. She, too, had been spellbound by the
suddenness and the violence of the scene which she
had watched.
"Money ?" echoed Laroche, " ah, if Inskipp was
killed for money, it would be Norbury, undoubtedly!
Some securities left here in his charge, I suppose,
when Inskipp went to England, and which Norbury
decided were too good to have to hand back? But
where does the postman come in? Was that
Norbury's doing too, hein?" He turned to Pointer,
so did the commissaire, who had not yet heard the
last piece of news.
"I think we shall find that Norbury had been
told by his wife that she had posted some letter,
possibly containing one of the notes in question, or
some information, to the police, and wanted to secure
it. I take it she said that, hoping to save herself
when she saw how unwise she had been to tackle him
alone in a room—or a barn—about the matter."
Mrs. Norbury gave a sort of gasping choke.
Edna's massage had helped her to swallow a
sip of brandy, and a few minutes later she was carried

without asking any


SCARECROW
273
to her room where they left her with Edna and Sabe.
The commissaire and Pointer had a long talk in a
room to themselves, guarded by a policeman with
a bulging holster. Laroche shot Pointer a keen
glance at the name and title by which the commissaire
called him as he shook hands finally and hurried
out to his car.
Pointer found that Edna, since the doctor was
down in Menton, had, with the sublime confidence
of ignorance, given Mrs. Norbury a strong sleeping
draught such as she herself had so often had to take.
It had calmed the woman almost instantly, and
she was now sleeping heavily.
"I hope I've done right," Edna said a trifle
fearfully.
Like many other people, she asked herself that a
trifle belatedly. But Mrs. Norbury appeared to be
sleeping tranquilly. Pointer said as much. And then
he asked her why she had said that she had seen
Mrs. Norbury passing through the farm-gates
dressed as for a call.
Edna flushed. "I did see her, but slipping round
the corner of the barn," she confessed, "and her
face—and her manner of doing it "she paused
for a second. Then she looked full at the chief
inspector. "/ know what terror looks like—and
feels like! Naturally one thought of Mr. Norbury—
I never liked him. And I didn't think she did—
much. So on the off-chance that it might be of use
to her I said that I had seen her making for the
opposite direction from the one she had really been
taking."
She stopped to look down at the sleeping figure.
By this time the arrest of Norbury for the murder had
been discussed over and over again by the guests
at the farm.


276
SCARECROW
relief he discovered that she had no reluctance what-
ever to giving away her husband. Chiefly from
genuine horror of what he had done, but partly
also from the growing dislike of the man, that Edna
Whin-Browning had divined. Mrs. Norbury had
wanted back the money that she had put into the
farm so as to be able to leave him. As Pointer had
thought, she had recognised one of the numbers of
the notes when, after the manager had left, she had
read through the list carefully. For when they had
gone to the Marseilles at the end of December, she
had noticed that Norbury was always slipping away
from her. She suspected some other woman, and
had followed him—to five banks. Watching, she
saw him change a thousand-franc note in each. He
paid, too, for their purchases, entirely in thousand-
franc notes, and had dealt—though she had not
noticed the significance of this—entirely with shops
where he and she were not known. She bought back
one of the notes which he had just changed, found
that it was perfectly good, but kept it. It was the
number of this note which she had read on the list
handed in by the manager. And when Norbury
refused to explain how he came to have had it in his
possession at Marseilles, it was her false assertion
that they would soon see about that, as she had just
explained, when and how it had come into her
possession, and posted the explanation to the
Menton police which had led him, when he found
her gone from the locked barn, to hurry after
the postman in rubber shoes, stun him, and
search his postbag. What had saved her life
had been, as she thought, Laroche calling and
looking for Rackstraw who was late for a pro-
posed jaunt over the hills together. Norbury, who
had snatched his wife by the throat in a passion of


278
SCARECROW
England between two very burly fellow-passengers,
who kept always one or other hand thrust through
his arm, " Look here, I know the cat must only look
at the king, far less question his Majesty, but why
did you tell me over the telephone, when Mrs.
Norbury was missing, to take such care of Norbury?
Why stuff me about his being in danger?"
"I wanted to prevent his finding his wife at
some moment when he was by himself, and im-
mediately finishing her off," Pointer said gravely.
"—as he would have done!"
"Also, it's ghastly work pretending to be
friends with a man whom you believe to be a
murderer," Pointer's voice took on a deeper note,
"let alone suspect of being on the verge of a second
murder. You would have had to talk to him—
sympathise with him—perhaps drink and eat with
him—take his hand—I assure you, there's nothing
harder to do! So I thought I would spare you that
—if I could. Also," his eyes twinkled, "I don't
know how good an actor you are. And it takes
uncommonly good acting to deceive a man who's
watching for the shadow of the rope. Norbury was
not to be suspect that he was suspected. But there's
our train just coming in."
The two were only going as far as Nice and the
British Consulate-General for to-night. When they
were seated in an empty compartment, Christopher
leant forward.
"Thanks for sparing me. I certainly should have
loathed the job and equally certainly should have
bungled it," he said. "But when did you first
suspect Norbury? I had no idea—somehow I never
thought of him. He looked what he called him-
self—such a typical farmer."
"When did I first suspect him?" Pointer was


28o
SCARECROW
Norbury had evidently taken the portraits of the so-
called Mireille from his—Rackstraw's—photographs,
and then invented a character to fit which would be
sure to captivate the romantic, lonely Inskipp.
"Frankly," Christopher said now, "I can't
imagine what set Norbury off on the idea of the
lovely Mireille. A girl who was dead before he ever
saw her portrait! It worked—up to a point. But
how did he come to think of it? It seems so out of
his line of country. Laroche can't sleep at night,
he tells me, for puzzling over it."
Pointer explained the origin of the trick that had
been played on Inskipp. Spite on the part of
Florence Rackstraw—and a desire to humiliate
Inskipp's very soul when she would have the joy
of telling him of the deception, which had set a
ball rolling that in the end had led to Inskipp's
murder. "Mrs. Norbury suggests that it was when
Norbury was hunting for the mother's address to
let her know of the daughter's tragedy that he
found those copies of the letters written by Florence
to Inskipp that we have just discovered among his
personal papers. Sabe's evidence, too, will be taken
about the change in the postmarks just after the
death of Miss Rackstraw."
"Sab6 seems only excited about Norbury's
arrest—not in the lest heart-broken," put in
Christopher, who had a soft spot for the pretty
Mentonnaise.
"That's all. Her father feels that he paid back
handsomely whatever score there was to settle, by
collaring Norbury so usefully. Luckily for Sabe,
Mrs. Norbury was on the qui vive about the girl,
though she had not thought of connecting her flighti-
ness with her own husband. She suspected Rack-
straw or even Blythe, of being the trifler, she says."


SCARECROW
28l
Again there was a pause, as the train carried
them along the wonderful coastline at which neither
man so much as glanced.
"Norbury was starting to sell his farm—without
Mrs. Norbury's knowledge. The place was bought
in both his and his wife's names, but I think he
would have managed to swindle her out of her share
in the proceeds," Pointer said next.
"Trust him!" The fervour of Christopher's
tone meant just the opposite.
"You think that Norbury would have sold—and
vanished?"
"I do. He was getting things ready, and he was
a good planner."
"Just what did the Whin-Browning story stand
for in his plans, do you think ?" asked Christopher
after another pause.
Pointer's explanation started earlier in the tale.
"When Norbury knew that he would have to
pay back that thousand pounds and risk being
prosecuted and convicted, he foresaw that probably
Inskipp would have to be killed." Pointer was
lighting his pipe.
"And when did that dawn on him?"
"When he saw an envelope handed to Inskipp from
Clermont-Ferrand in another writing than Oreille's,
he must have suspected—wrongly, as it happens—
that Oreille had fallen down on the task of completing
the hoodwinking of the poor victim. When he
watched Inskipp's appalled face, he guessed that
the game was up. We know now that Norbury
came down late for dinner and excused himself with
a tale about wandering around corridors and not
finding lift or stairs. I shouldn't be surprised if he
had slipped into Inskipp's room and read that
Clermont-Ferrand letter, left probably by Inskipp


SCARECROW
283
"Norbury is a cautious villain. He had inspected
that shelter before he chose it, we may be sure."
"And, of course, he wrote the letter to Rackstraw
giving him every conceivable right in Inskipp's
scenario "Christopher gave a reminiscent
chuckle at the man's cunning.
"Of course. And so could point out afterwards
how odd he thought it I" The detective officer, too,
gave a grim smile, adding that there was nothing
so easy to pass off successfully as a forgery when no
suspicions were roused.
There followed a long silence.
"Mrs. Norbury's evidence about the thousand-
franc note will stand any cross-questioning."
Pointer's tone was one of deep satisfaction. "You
can't bully Mrs. Norbury into changing black into
white. And then, above all, the French police have
got hold of Oreille."
Christopher was only mildly interested. "You
seem very keen on Oreille, but I take it he stood
for nothing in the actual crime, only in the decep-
tion?"
"His character meant the difference between life
and death to Inskipp. Rather in Laroche's strain
that, but I think it's true none the less," was the
slow reply, spoken very gravely.
"You mean 'all the more,'" prompted
Christopher, whose forehead was wrinkling as he
thought over the other's last words. He did not
follow the reasoning behind them, and said so after
a short silence.
"As I see it, Inskipp's death, after his claim for
the return of his thousand pounds, was necessary
only because Oreille couldn't be trusted," said
Pointer. "Otherwise, he would only have had to
disappear, and Inskipp could never have cleared up





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